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TOLD IN THE 
TWILIGHT 


BY 


MOTHER Mf SALOME 


NEW YORK CINCINNATI CHICAGO 

BENZIGER BROTHERS 


PUBLISHERS OF BENZIGER ’s MAGAZINE 

1912 


COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY BENZIGER BROTHERS 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


Blue Roses 7 

“Forgive” 11 

Rudolph of Hapsburg 14 

The Galley-Slave 17 

Friendship 21 

The White Dress ......... 25 

St. Francis and the Leper 29 

WiTIKIND 32 

A Spartan Maid 36 

A Child’s Good-by 40 

Karja, the Gipsy 45 

Two Little Girls at School 49 

Nat, who Lied 54 

Tony 58 

The Artist’s Return 6l 

Doctor Maurice of Sully 68 

Strange but True 72 

One Generation of the House of Garaye . . 78 

3 


4 Contents 

PAGE 

The Rent 83 

The Doctor’s Visit 87 

Where the Money Goes 92 

Promises 96 

Marble or Bread 103 

Roses 109 

The Widow’s Web . 113 

An Elephant’s Ways 117 

Pedro Ribadeneira 120 

The Ring of Polycrates 125 

The Spanish Parrot 129 

De Ore Leonis 131 

The Red Thread 134* 

A Hero and a Heroine 137 

The Changeling 14,1 

A Fight and a Victory 147 

Long, Long Ago 154 

Prize Flowers l6l 

A Kind of Picnic Igg 

A Baby-Worker 175 

Better Thoughts 180 

A Legend 185 

Luigi 189 


Contents 


5 

PAGE 

Black Peter .... 193 

A Fire Trick . . . 205 

Presence op Mind 213 

The Commandant at Hersfield 216 

The Twelfth Night Cake 219 

‘‘The Lord’* 226 

. . . . 231 


Hidden Servants 


/ 


% 


TOLD IN THE TWILIGHT 


3Blue IRoses 

'^HE painter wanted to marry the Squire’s 
daughter. But the painter was poor and 
the Squire was proud. The young man had 
pleaded and the girl had wept, but the father 
had laughed scornfully and sent the young 
man about his business. He had no money, 
he said; he had made no name. Let him go 
forth and make both; then it would be time 
enough to talk of marriage. Arnold and 
May did not see things in this wise light. 
They had heard of love in a cottage and 
thought it could not be better placed. So 
Arnold worked and May hoped, and they both 
loved. 

One day, however, the painter thought he 
would try his luck once more with the purse- 

proud father. He would venture once again 
7 


8 


Blue Roses 


to plead his cause. So after many a fervent 
prayer he stood before the old man, shy, but 
very much in earnest. He told of his wait- 
ing; of his hopes; his successes. The Squire 
listened with cool silence. When the young 
man had finished, he pointed to a bowl of roses 
on the table before him. “See those white 
roses,” he said. “When you can paint me in 
natural colors roses blue and lilies red, you 
can return and ask for my daughter’s hand. 
Until then never set foot in my house again.” 

Arnold bowed and left the room in despair. 
Who had ever heard of red lilies and blue 
roses! The task was impossible. No artist 
could so outrage nature. As he swung home- 
ward, he passed a church. The doors were 
open. He hesitated for a moment and then 
went in. The sun had begun to set. The 
dark clouds were parting and the slanting rays 
were falling upon the many-colored tiled floor. 
Arnold went up to the altar-rails and told out 
the whole sorrow of his heart. There was One 
there who could understand him. One who 
had borne human sorrow, and had looked for 


Blue Roses 


9 


sympathy. Arnold’s prayer was long and 
heartfelt, and when he raised his eyes to the 
altar the light was streaming in through the 
gorgeous glass. It fell upon the white marble 
of the altar and made it sparkle like snow; it 
fell upon the palms on the altar steps till they 
shone again; it fell upon the costly flowers in 
the brass vases. The young man feasted his 
eyes upon their brilliant colors. But what has 
brought that flush to his cheeks; that sparkle 
to his eye? It must be rapture; nothing less 
could so change the features. On he gazed, 
hardly daring to believe his eyes. For were 
not the lilies red and the roses blue? The sun’s 
rays pouring in through the rich colors of 
the old glass had dyed the flowers again. 
The tall, stately lily was tinged with the red 
of Our Saviour’s robes; the delicate white of 
the rose was charged with the blue of Our 
Lady’s mantle. The problem was solved. 
God had answered the young man’s prayer. 
With a heart overflowing with gratitude Ar- 
nold rushed home. After a few weeks’ silent, 
patient labor, the artist once more returned 


10 


Blue Roses 


to the Squire’s house. He unveiled his canvas 
before the old man without a word, then 
pointed to the blue roses and the red lilies, true 
to nature, yet not with nature’s colors. 




2)ii> there ever come into your heart a tight 
feeling, hard and bitter: “I won’t for- 
give”; “I hate”; “I’ll pay back”? If ever it 
comes again, you must turn upon it as a Nor- 
man would have turned upon a Saxon, and 
cry, “No quarter!” Hatred and revenge are 
terrible passions. They lead to the worst 
crimes; they harden hearts and shut out God 
and charity. I will tell you a true story. It 
comes in the acts of St. Nicephorus, martyr, 
and it shows what comes of a passion left un- 
conquered. 

There were two friends who lived in Antioch 
about the year 200. The name of the elder 
was Sapricius; of the other, Nicephorus. 
One day they quarreled; time passed; still the 
friends remained at enmity. They would not 
meet in the street; they would not speak a 

word to each other. Nicephorus after some 
11 


n 


''Forgive'' 


months was ashamed of his bad dispositions 
and made the first advances. Sapricius was 
visited by a friend of both and begged to for- 
give and make friends again. He refused. 
Then Nicephorus went to him in person and 
on his knees besought him to end the quarrel. 
Sapricius would not listen. 

Suddenly a persecution broke out. The 
Emperors Valerian and Gallien sent out de- 
crees for the arrest and death of those who 
refused to worship the gods of ancient Rome. 
Sapricius was cited to appear. He made a 
glorious profession of faith; he bore torture 
with splendid courage and was sentenced to 
be beheaded. News of this victory was 
brought to young Nicephorus. The noble 
boy rejoiced at his old friend’s victory. But 
he was broken-hearted to think he still owed 
him so deep a grudge. On the way to the 
place of martyrdom he threw himself with 
great humility at the feet of Sapricius and 
once more begged his forgiveness. “Martyr 
of Jesus, forgive me my offense,” he cried. 
But Sapricius made no answer. The execu- 


"'Forgive"" 


13 


tioner mocked; what need had he of a dead 
man’s forgiveness? he asked. Was he not as 
good as dead? Even on the threshold of eter- 
nity Sapricius remained hardened; he would 
not forgive his neighbor. Then a dreadful 
thing happened. Our Lord withdrew His 
grace; Sapricius was left to his own strength. 
The command was given. He was to lay his 
head on the block. “What for?” asked the 
quaking man. “Because you will not sacri- 
fice, nor obey the Emperor’s orders.” “Stop, 
do not put me to death,” the poor fellow 
cried. “I will sacrifice.” Nicephorus was 
standing by. Horror-struck at the apostasy, 
he besought him lovingly not to forsake Our 
Lord Jesus Christ. But Sapricius had fallen 
too deeply. He turned away hardened in his 
sin. Then Nicephorus declared himself a 
Christian. A warrant was immediately given 
for his death. He was beheaded and received 
the reward of his humility, charity and faith. 


Ube 3£mperor IRubolpb of Ibapsbura 

Emperor Rudolph was sitting in his 
ancient hall at Aix-la-Chapelle. He was 
surrounded by his nobles and his courtiers at 
the festive board, for this was his coronation 
day and all was gladness and joy. The time 
of war and misery was over, and the land was 
at last blessed by a strong ruler and a wise 
man, a protector of the weak and a revenger 
of the strong and wicked. Trumpets were 
blowing, men were cheering. The galleries 
round the fine old hall were filled with respect- 
ful onlookers. But the Emperor’s eyes 
sought some one. He looked round the bril- 
liant rows of happy people ; but he did not find 
him whom he sought. At last he called aloud 
for a minstrel to celebrate with music and song 
the glad day of his coronation. “As a simple 
knight,” he said, “he had had his minstrel; as 
King he could not forego him.” Presently 
from the crowded throng a man stepped out. 

14 . 


The Emperor Rudolph 15 

He wore the long white robe of a minstrel, 
and carried a harp in his hand. He ap- 
proached the Emperor in a stately but humble 
manner and asked him to give him a theme. 
Rudolph refused ; one with such a heaven-born 
gift should receive no orders from him, he 
said. Let him play as his fancy dictated, free 
as the summer birds. 

The minstrel touched the strings with a hesi- 
tating hand; then sang the following in rude 
verse: 

“A noble knight was hunting in his own 
domains. By chance he had been separated 
from his companions, and had found himself 
on a lonely moor alone with one squire. As he 
looked over the large expanse he saw coming 
toward him an old priest in surplice and stole. 
The acolyte with lighted lantern in hand rang 
a little bell to warn the stray traveler that Our 
Lord in the Blessed Sacrament was passing by. 
The knight dismounted at once and reverently 
knelt to adore. But as he watched the move- 
ments of the priest, he saw that the old man 
was preparing to take off his shoes and stock- 


16 The Emperor Rudolph 

ings and to wade the swollen brook. The 
count went up to the priest and asked him 
what was his errand. He was told that a dy- 
ing man who lived at some distance had asked 
for the last Sacraments, and that over the 
brook was the shortest way to his hut. The 
young count immediately offered his superb 
horse to the priest and helped him to mount. 
He himself took the horse of his squire and 
continued the chase in the best of spirits. 

“Next day the young count was summoned 
to the courtyard. The old priest, who had 
led back the beautiful charger, now returned 
it to him with humble thanks. But the knight 
put the bridle into his hands and told him to 
keep for the divine service that which once 
had been honored by the presence of the Lord. 
Never again, he said, could he ride to the himt 
a horse that had borne his King and Master.” 

The minstrel’s story was ended. A silence 
had fallen upon the guests. Rudolph’s face 
showed surprise and pleasure. He looked 
hard into the minstrel’s eyes and recognized 
the priest. 


XTbe (5aUe^s*Sla\)e 

^OME with me and visit a French galley in 
the harbor of Versailles. Louis XIII is 
on the throne; it is the seventeenth century. 
We have a pass, and are allowed on board. 
The vessel is chartered to carry about four 
hundred men; about two hundred of these are 
galley-slaves, prisoners condemned for twenty 
years, or for hfe, to row in the hold of the ves- 
sel. There are fifty-four benches or banks, 
twenty-seven on either side, and four or five 
men sit on each bench. They are chained by 
the feet and guarded by two overseers who sit 
on a bridge built between the two sets of 
benches. These men have long whips in their 
hands and from their seats can reach the naked 
backs of all the unfortunate men who hold 
the oars. There is no air in the apartment, 
there is no room to stretch the fettered legs; 
the food consists of small allowances of biscuit, 

17 


18 


The Galley-Slave 

or rice, or bones, or green stuff ; the water is 
foul. The work is hard beyond measirre; the 
hand of the overseer merciless. There is no 
cleanhness, no virtue, no hope. The slaves 
lived like animals and often enough died like 
animals. 

Among the poor wretches sitting on the 
banks, we find a young man; we notice him 
at once. His face is livid, his look haggard. 
He is suffering in mind as well as in body, 
and there is a look of desperation in his eyes. 
He has been condemned, but is innocent, and 
his mother is at home dying of grief. If only 
he could go to see her, if only he could assure 
her that he is innocent, he would gladly return 
and finish the unjust sentence. 

Suddenly he feels a gentle hand upon his 
shoulder; he looks up and sees a man in the 
prime of life bending over him. His face is 
thin and rather sallow, but lit up by large, 
lustrous eyes. The man is dressed like one of 
the lower middle class and there would be 
nothing to note about him were it not for the 
look in his eyes. It is full of sympathy, of 


19 


The Galley-Slave 

love, of divine pity. The poor galley-slave 
gazes wonder-struck and finds himself pour- 
ing out to him the tale of his woe. The 
stranger listens intently, sometimes pressing 
his shoulder with his gentle hand ; sometimes 
wiping away the tears that roll down his 
cheeks. When the whole stor}^ is told there 
is a pause; the stranger is thinking deeply. 
Then his face lights up; his whole expression 
is changed. He hurries off to the overseer; 
there is a rapid conversation; the stranger is 
evidently pleading earnestly. He returns 
with the overseer to the galley-slave, who re- 
moves the convict’s irons and bids him lay 
down his oars. The poor fellow is struck 
motionless with amazement — unchained and 
free! The stranger assures him all is well. 
He must return home and see his dying mother 
and comfort her; then return to his bench until 
a petition can be sent up to the King. 

Just as the convict turns half -dazed with 
joy, he sees his irons being riveted on the 
stranger’s feet; he sees his thin hands seize 
the oars and his back bend to the stroke. 


20 The Galley-Slave 

St. Vincent of Paul, Almoner-General of 
all royal galley-slaves, had exchanged his 
freedom for the lot of a slave for the love of 
his Master, Jesus Christ Our Lord. 


iprien&sbtp 


1fN LONG ago times, before Our Lord was 
born, there lived in a heathen country two 
men who were friends. They loved each other 
as few brothers love. Their names were Da- 
mon and Pythias. The king of the country 
was Dionysius, and he was a tyrant of the 
worst type. Him Damon tried to kill; this 
was of course a wicked act ; but Damon was a 
heathen and perhaps knew no better. Any- 
way, he was found out before he could do the 
deed, and the king ordered him to be crucified, 
as that was the worst and most ignominious 
death any one could possibly suffer. Damon 
was quite resigned; he only asked for three 
days’ delay. For he had it in his power to 
restore his sister’s husband to her family. The 
king consented on condition, as he mockingly 
said, he would find a hostage willing to die in 

his place should he not return. Damon went 
21 


Friendship 

straight to his friend, Pythias, and explained 
the whole case to him. Without a moment’s 
hesitation Pythias accepted the terms, and bade 
his friend “God-speed.” 

Damon set out and accomplished his journey 
without any trouble. He left his sister happy 
with her newly -restored husband, and began 
his return voyage. 

But here trouble after trouble came upon 
him. Terrible rains fell and swamped the 
country. Rivers overflowed ; bridges were 
swept away; no boats were to be had for love 
or money. At one stage of his journey Da- 
mon found his path flooded as by an angry 
sea. He stood on the banks and wept. It 
was twelve o’clock. If he had not reached his 
destination by nightfall, his friend would die 
in his place. The thought was agony. He 
sank on his knees and prayed to God, for 
though he was a pagan he believed in a Su- 
preme Being. Strengthened by his prayer, 
the poor traveler took heart and threw himself 
into the flood and struggled with the rising 
waves as only a desperate man can. Drip- 


Friendship ^3 

ping and exhausted he reached the opposite 
side and made a dash for the town where his 
friend was preparing to die. There was no 
time for rest or refreshment, no time to think, 
only to act. As he approached the place he 
saw crowds gathering and he heard the re- 
marks of the men hurrying by. “He is to 
die at sunset, to be crucified,” they said. On 
and on went Damon. On the way he was met 
by a friend of his. “Too late, Damon,” he 
said. “Flee for your life. You can not save 
your friend; at least save yourself.” Damon 
pushed him aside. “If I can not save him, I 
will die with him,” he cried. The execution- 
ers were all ready; the beams were being fas- 
tened ; the cords got ready. Pythias stood firm 
and undaunted. There was a movement in 
the dense mass of people, a swaying to and 
fro. Some one was approaching the king’s 
chair of state. The guards would have kept 
off the intruder but for his desperate violence. 
He reached the tyrant’s chair and flung him- 
self on his knees. Here he was, Damon, the 
condemned; let the king order the execution 


£4 Friendship 

to be deferred. His friend must not die. 
Dionysius gave the order and asked what had 
happened. All was told to him; how Pythias 
had trusted his friend’s honor; how Damon had 
overcome almost insuperable obstacles to be 
true to his trust, and how nobly both had 
wished to die the one for the other. The king 
listened and was moved to pity. He forgave 
both, and holding out his hands humbly asked 
to be allowed to join the bond of friendship. 

And I hope the two friends let him. Be- 
cause I think a noble friend is a thing a king 
may want and not find. 


Ubc xmibite Dress 


]guGENiE Smet was a French child. She was 
born at Lille, and grew up to be the found- 
ress of an Order which does great work for 
God. When this child was very young she 
went to school at a convent as so many of you 
do. Eugenie loved the ceremonies of the 
Church ; she loved her place in the chapel close 
to the Blessed Sacrament where she could see 
the Tabernacle and follow all the movements 
of the priests. 

One day there was to be a special ceremony 
in the chapel. All the children were to be 
in white. Those who had no white dresses 
would have to give up their seats at the top to 
those who had. Poor Eugenie! she had no 
white dress. Her family was in the country; 
there was no possible means of letting them 
know her need. What was to be done? She 
could not bear the idea of being far away 

25 


The White Dress 


from the altar, where she would not be able 
to see the Blessed Saerament. 

Now Eugenie knew exactly what to do. 
She asked the “dear Providence of God” to 
give her what she needed. Perhaps some of 
you do not know what is meant by Divine 
Providence, It is God as Ruler of the world, 
foreseeing our wants, and supplying them. 
Eugenie always thought of God in this man- 
ner. All she got was from Him. All the 
love of which she had such a large share in 
her happy home came from God. All the 
little crosses came from Him, too, and had to 
be taken as we take medicine from those we 
love. You must not think, however, that 
Eugenie was a saint at this time of her life. 
She was nothing of the kind. She had faults 
just as you and I have. But she had very 
much love, and that made her very dear to 
Our Lord. And it made it very easy for her 
to get what she wanted from Him. 

So this particular day, as Eugenie wanted 
a frock and did not see who could possibly give 
it to her except God Himself, she went and 


The White Dress 


n 


asked Him for it. “O my dear Providence,” 
she said, “I do beg of you to send me a white 
dress. I will always love you and ask you for 
everything I want, from the least thing to the 
greatest — for a pin or for heaven.” Days 
passed. At last the eve of the grand day 
came. The children’s dresses were put out on 
their beds ready for the morrow. Eugenie 
went up to the dormitory quite certain she 
would find her dress there. For she had asked 
God for it. The others had only asked their 
parents ; they had received theirs. How much 
more would she who had asked Almighty God 
Himself. The white dress was on the bed. 
Who had put it there she never knew, nor did 
she care. God had answered her prayer and 
given her what she wanted so much. 

Eugenie Smet grew up a noble woman. 
She founded the Congregation of the Helpers 
of the Holy Souls. Her love for the suffer- 
ing souls in Purgatory grew out of her love 
of the Providence of God. ‘‘What can I do 
to help God?” she used to ask herself and every 
one about her. And the answer was, help the 


28 


The White Dress 


holy souls in Purgatory; make sacrifices for 
them. And to do this most thoroughly she 
gave up her whole life to their service. 

I think you and I might find some way of 
“helping God” if we were very much in ear- 
nest. Shall we try? 


iFrancis ant) tbe Xepet 

HAVE never seen a leper and I do not think 
most of you have. But we know how very 
much lepers are to be pitied. They not only 
suffer pain, but they are disfigured, too, and 
their condition makes it hard for any one to 
look after them. St. Francis of Assisi loved 
all sick people, those best who were most 
neglected and most suffering. And he com- 
manded his brethren to serve them in the hos- 
pitals, or in their own homes. 

There was one leper who besides being very 
ill, was very wicked. He used bad words, not 
only against the poor Brothers who came to 
wait upon him, but also against Our Lady and 
the saints. Now these Brothers bore all 
patiently until the leper blasphemed the holy 
Mother of God. Then they made up their 
minds they would leave him to himself. 
When St. Francis heard of this bad-tempered 

29 


30 


St, Francis and the Leper 

man he went to visit him, and spoke gently 
to him. “God give thee peace, my brother 
most dear,” the saint began. The leper cried 
out, “How can I have any peace, when God 
has taken all things from me, and made me 
rotten in my very lifetime.” St. Francis told 
him to be patient, that God would repay him 
in another life for all he should suffer in this. 
Then he offered himself to be his servant and 
asked him what he would most like him to do 
for him. The poor leper was astonished at 
his kindness and asked him to bathe him. He 
felt so miserable and dirty, a burden to himself 
and all about him. 

At once St. Francis girded himself with a 
towel, ordered some water to be boiled with 
sweet-smelling herbs, and brought to the 
leper’s miserable hut. Then the saint knelt 
down and began to wash the leper all over. 
Another Brother stood by to change the water 
and keep it hot. Then there happened an 
extraordinary thing. Wherever St. Francis 
laid his hand, there the flesh was healed. And 
as the flesh of the leper began to heal, so did 


St Francis and the Leper SI 

his temper; sorrow entered his heart; he re- 
pented of all the wicked things he had said 
about the angels and saints, and all the unkind 
things toward the good Brothers who had 
waited upon him so meekly. When all his 
body was washed, it was all healed, and re- 
mained so until the end of his life. The leper 
did strict penance for fifteen days, went to 
Confession and Holy Communion. But he 
did not live long. 

Another illness came upon him and he died. 
After his death, he appeared in great glory to 
St. Francis, and blessed him for all he had 
done for him, soul and body. 




2)0 YOU know who Charlemagne was? He 
was the emperor of the Franks in the ninth 
century, a sovereign renowned in history and 
song, and in some places even venerated as a 
saint. He was of gigantic stature, robust of 
frame, commanding of mien, beautiful and 
joyous of look. His mind was powerful, 
cultured, and refined, though privately, I be- 
lieve, he found it very difficult to learn to write 
and never really learned how to write well. 
For, you see, he began to learn when he was 
old, and that is a drawback. Still Charle- 
magne was a great scholar. He spoke Latin 
as fluently as German, his native tongue. He 
knew enough Greek to understand all that the 
ambassadors from Constantinople said to him. 
Besides this he was a military genius of the 
highest order, a patron of learning, and a pro- 
tector of the Church. He was more than all 

32 


Witikind 


SS 


this, but it is not of Charlemagne that I am 
going to tell you now, but of one of his boldest 
enemies — a heathen rebel who would not be at 
peace himself nor let any one else be at peace 
if he could help it. This was Witikind, a wild 
Saxon chief. Time after time he led his coun- 
trymen, reinforced by the neighboring tribes 
of Frisians and Danes, into Frankish territory, 
and though he was repulsed on each occasion 
he would not surrender or come to terms. The 
others Saxon chiefs when they were defeated 
used to promise Charlemagne anything he 
asked them. They received Baptism and 
swore allegiance. Then as soon as the em- 
peror’s back was turned they rose in rebellion 
and returned to their heathen ways. Such 
men were dastards and cowards. Witikind, 
on the other hand, made no promises; he re- 
fused to abandon his gods; and he openly 
waited for a promising opportunity to begin 
new raids. 

Charlemagne at last lost all patience. He 
summoned a council of Saxons and asked 
them for an explanation of their disgraceful 


34 


Witikind 


conduct. They threw all the blame upon the 
absent Witikind. It was he, they said, who 
kept up the spirit of rebellion, drilled the 
troops, and led them to battle. To please the 
emperor these recreant men gave up thousands 
of their own race whom they accused of being 
Witikind’s accomplices. These confederates 
were tried and condemned and beheaded — four 
thousand five hundred men! This act was 
the one crime which tarnishes Charlemagne’s 
military fame. Witikind was not among the 
slain. For three years he held out against the 
vindictive Franks. But three years’ warfare 
against such an enemy as Charlemagne would 
exhaust an even more skilled nation than the 
Saxon. At last in the year 785 they accepted 
the terms of peace offered by the Emperor 
and were baptized. 

Among those who made their way to the 
baptistery on that memorable day was Witi- 
kind, the haughty rebel. His head was 
bowed; he wore no weapon; his hands were 
folded with reverent humility. He was con- 
quered, but not by Charlemagne, great though 


Witikind 


35 


he was. This is the legend that tells of Witi- 
kind’s conversion. He had heard that there 
was to be a grand ceremony at Easter time, 
and he was curious to know what the Chris- 
tians did at their religious services. He 
dressed in the garb of a beggar and entered 
the church just as Mass was beginning. He 
watched intently the whole ceremony which, 
remember, children, though performed so long 
ago, was the same as you see now in your own 
parish churches. Witikind stood with the rest, 
bowed with the rest. There was a bell. He 
listened and raised his head. The priest was 
holding the Sacred Host on high. But Witi- 
kind’s gaze was riveted. He did not see the 
appearance of bread such as you and I would. 
But held on high in the priest’s hands he saw 
the form of a little Infant, that seemed to 
stretch its tiny arms towards the rough war- 
rior, and smile lovingly at him. Witikind’s 
heart glowed within him. He could surrender 
to that little Child. He could kiss that little 
foot in allegiance. He bowed his head and 
gave himself up to his little Lord. 


H Spartan /Il^a^^ 


'^His story goes back to about five hundred 
years before Our Lord’s birth. The Jews 
of the kingdom of Juda were building their 
second temple. They had returned from their 
long captivity and were once more living in 
the land of their forefathers. But I am not 
going to tell of them this time. I am going 
into Greece, to a pagan nation who worship 
many gods, who are highly cultured, great 
warriors, and endowed with splendid qualities. 

Cleomenes, one of the kings of Sparta, had 
a visitor; this man was slightly built, with an 
earnest look, and keen restless eyes. He was 
a conspirator who had come to see if he could 
induce the Spartan king to side with him in 
a great enterprise. Aristagoras the Ionian 
wanted to raise a rebellion, and free his coun- 
try from the dominion of the Persians, and his 
present mission was to persuade foreign pow- 
ers to come to his aid. 


36 


A Spartan Maid 37 

Cleomenes the king was prudent, and he 
listened to all that the Ionian had to say. The 
rebel spread before him a brass map of the 
then known world and showed him the rich 
country of Persia stretching far out into the 
East. With his finger on Susa, the capital, 
he spoke eloquently of the fertility of the land, 
the wealth of the minerals, the soft luxurious- 
ness of the eastern nations. Cleomenes was 
moved, but asked for three days’ thought. 
When the two met again, Cleomenes asked 
how long it would take an invading army to 
reach the Persian capital. “Three months,” 
was the prompt answer. Cleomenes rose, 
pushed away the map, and declared all negotia- 
tions at an end. He would never risk a Gre- 
cian army so far away from home, he said. 
And in a stern voice he ordered the conspirator 
to quit his dominions before the sun set. 

But Aristagoras was not so easily overcome. 
He followed the great man to his palace, hold- 
ing an olive branch in his hand. The olive 
was a symbol of peace and of a humble suitor. 
Cleomenes received him in his private apart- 


38 


A Spartan Maid 

merits. The day’s work was done and the king 
was playing with his little daughter, a child 
of about eight years old. This time the Ionian 
held no map in his hand; he did not speak of 
conquest; he spoke of a bribe. Would Cleo- 
menes for a large sum of money, to he given 
to him personally, consent to aid the rebel 
Greeks. “No,” was the firm answer, “not for 
any sum, however great.” The child was 
watching ; Aristagoras named a greater, and a 
still greater sum. The child came nearer to 
her father’s chair. No one heeded her. She 
was only a child. Yes, Gorgo was only a 
child. But her cheeks burned with shame ; her 
lips trembled. The Ionian was becoming 
more and more eloquent ; the bribe was increas- 
ing. The love of money was ever a strong 
part of the Spartan character and Cleomenes’ 
eyes showed that he was by no means indif- 
ferent to the proffered treasm^e. Once more 
a sum was named; there was a dead silence 
and a moment’s pause. Gorgo came up to her 
father and laying her hand upon his arm said, 
in a clear, distinct voice: “Go away. Father; 


A Spartan Maid 39 

the stranger will do you harm.” Cleomenes 
rose and left the room without a word. Aris- 
tagoras was defeated by a child. 

Two thousand five hundred years ago a little 
child had such infiuence! Do you think it 
would have the same now? I think so. I 
think children have wonderful power over 
people’s hearts. But then they have to be the 
right kind of children — simple, true, strong, 
brave; loving the good and doing it with all 
their might. Wouldn’t you children like to 
have a power, such as that Spartan maid had? 
I think you might, if you disciplined your 
own hearts and brought them under your 
strong young wills. You see I have high 
thoughts for Catholic children. 




HEARD the other day of a young lady who 
became rich all at once ; that is to say, she 
and her mother and family had had to struggle 
to make ends meet, as we say, and suddenly 
got a fortune. Now, you know, I do not think 
that riches make people happy; in fact, I am 
quite sure that, if rich people are happy it 
is not because they are rich. It is not in the 
power of riches to make happiness, just as hoh- 
days don’t make sunshine. They may happen 
to come together, or they may not. The one 
does not cause the other. 

What I want to say by this long prelude is 
that I am telling you this story for another 
purpose than to show that riches are a great 
thing to be hoped and sought for. Now for 
my story: 

A lady, a Mrs. Burdett, had a very happy 
home. Her husband was a judge in a good 

40 


41 


A Child/ s Good-By 

position; she had a dear little daughter and a 
baby son of whom she was as proud as ever a 
mother could be. One day the father came 
to her room to say good-by ; he was going out 
hunting. He looked handsome and full of 
life and spirits. He stooped down and kissed 
his boy on the forehead, and twined the little 
finger round his big one. “Felix is his name,” 
he said. “I hope he will be as happy as I 
am to-day. He must be a soldier!” The 
mother’s eyes gleamed with joy. She came 
of a soldier’s family and loved the profession. 
As her husband crossed the room toward the 
door, his little daughter came up to him. She 
had a sweet childish face and large blue eyes. 
He lifted her up with great tenderness and 
kissed her silently. She watched him down 
the steps, and thought what a splendid man 
he looked. They waved hands — ^then the 
curve in the avenue hid him from her sight. 
That night he was brought back to his home on 
a shutter, struck through the breast with a bul- 
let. It was a pure accident and the unfortu- 
nate sportsman, Mr. Turner, who had done the 


42 


A Child's Good’By 

deed was broken-hearted. He was exonerated 
from all blame by the jury; but he could bear 
the neighborhood of the accident no longer. 
He resolved to sell his place, and go to Amer- 
ica. He was an unmarried man and had no 
one to think of in his plan-making but himself. 
He heard that the Burdett family was strait- 
ened by the death of the father. After much 
thought and prayer he made up his mind to 
call upon the unfortunate widow. For a long 
time she refused to see him. But his patience 
and gentleness won her over. In a short con- 
versation he begged her upon his knees to al- 
low him to share with her his fortune, to ac- 
cept half of his income. It was a hard strug- 
gle, but at last the mother in her prevailed; 
she thought of her children’s needs and she ac- 
cepted the generous gift. The poor penitent 
rose to his feet, with a great weight oiF his 
heart. As he turned to go, he held out his 
hand. But the widow shrank back; she could 
not take the hand that had brought such ter- 
rible suffering upon herself and her children. 
Turner made straight for the door. As he 


43 


A Child's Good-By 

was going down the hall, light footsteps were 
heard upon the marble, and a little warm hand 
was laid on his. “Good-by, dear Mr. Turner; 
if you stoop down I will kiss you.” Turner 
saw little Lucy, a fragile child, standing be- 
side him with a pathetic face, deep, sad, blue 
eyes, and long golden hair. It was like a 
vision to the stricken man. He took the 
childish hand and kissed it, and with the gentle 
words ringing in his ear, he left the house. 

Long long after that day, when Felix had 
grown up a bad son and a spendthrift, when 
debts and disgrace had fallen thick upon the 
family, a letter came to the eldest daughter, 
who was the comfort of her mother, the stay 
of her family. It was a black-edged one 
from a lawyer in America. Turner was dead, 
it said, and he had left the whole of his prop- 
erty to the child who had comforted him in 
his sorrow. 

Of course the money was very useful to 
Lucy. There were a hundred things she 
could do with it — ^help her mother, get good 
instruction for her little sisters, pay the serv- 


44 


A Child's Good-By 

ants’ wages, and help other people in distress. 
Still I think that the kind act was worth all 
the money and all the other help. I think 
that if Lucy had never received a farthing 
she would have been amply repaid, that that 
one act would have lasted like a living joy 
all her life. So this is why I began about 
riches; for fear you should think it well to do 
kind things in hopes of being paid for them 
in hard cash, in money down. But I am sure 
you would not. Kindness repays itself, and 
if done for our dear Lord is paid by Him in 
this world and in the next again. There is 
no end to His gratitude and generosity. 


‘Rarja 


OLD bachelor was a schoolmaster many, 
many years ago in a little village of Ger- 
many. He was tender-hearted and charitable 
to a fault. He thought nothing of bringing 
in starving children and seating them at his 
table for a good meal. He gave away until 
there was little left to keep. A distant rela- 
tion of his lived with him, and was as chari- 
table as he, only she always felt bound to have 
a grumble at every new act of kindness that 
the old man did. 

One day there was a circus in the village. 
On these occasions the schoolmaster not only 
went himself, but treated some of his likely 
youths or some of the most rolhcking to a 
place in the gallery. This particular time the 
bachelor followed with much interest the move- 
ments of a young mother and child. They 
were tight-rope dancers, and the woman 

45 


46 


Karja 

crossed the rope with her child in her arms. 
Suddenly there was a cry, the woman had 
fallen, and lay groaning in the arena. In a 
few strides the old man was at her side. She 
was mortally hurt, but looked distractedly into 
the faces of those who crowded around. See- 
ing the old schoolmaster she asked him, with 
an effort, if he would take charge of her little 
Karja. He consented, and the poor acrobat 
died in peace an hour after. 

With his small charge Andrew, the school- 
master, went home, and explained matters to 
his housekeeper. From force of habit, she 
was obliged to show a certain amount of tem- 
per. But I believe in my heart the good old 
soul was glad to have a small creature to look 
after. 

Karja was tiny for her age, but sharp and 
intelligent. The children called her Gipsy, 
because her skin was dark and her eyes were 
deepest brown. She was a wild child, hated 
the house, showed no affection for any one. 
Her foster-father loved her, and bought her 
toys; he spared no pains to make her happy. 


47 


Karja 

One only joy she seemed to have: to climb 
high trees. She fell often, and at last the old 
man felt obliged to forbid any more ascents. 
But Karja disobeyed. She used to flee into 
the woods and continue to climb the highest 
trees with breathless earnestness. 

It was the feast of All Souls. The ceme- 
teries were crowded with relations come to 
pray for their dead. Tapers, lights, torches, 
lanterns were lit around the tombs, and all 
prayed with fervor for the departed souls. 
When his devotions were finished old Andrew 
walked into the woods. The air was frosty, 
the night clear and starlit. He walked some 
time through the barren stems thinking of the 
wild little charge he had taken to his heart. 
In the distance he thought he saw a faint light 
as of candles burning. He walked more 
quickly, but softly. Yes, the figure kneeling 
so devoutly and rapt in prayer was his own 
little Karja. He knelt beside the child and 
prayed with her without knowing why. Their 
looks met. The child was flushed, her eyes 
sparkled. She threw her thin arms round the 


48 


Karja 

old man’s neck and told him her secret. Gip- 
sies, she explained, always buried their dead 
under lofty trees. She had heard that her 
mother had been buried somewhere near. 
The tree would be marked near its summit 
with a cross. It had been her longing to find 
her mother’s grave. That very day she had 
succeeded. At the top of that lofty fir-tree 
she had found a newly-marked cross, and 
knew that her mother lay underneath. And 
she had come there to keep All Souls with her. 
The old man and the child finished their pray- 
ers side by side, and after that day there was 
no cloud between them. The barrier had 
been taken away, and only gratitude and de- 
votion remained behind. Karja, the Gipsy, 
grew up all that the kind old man could have 
hoped, and made it her joy to repay him for 
all he had been to her. 


XTwo Xittle Girls at School 

"^HEY went hand-in-hand everywhere — ^to 
school and back home; to church and for 
walks. They bought sweets together at the 
same shop and sat together at catechism class. 
They were great friends and loved each other 
dearly. They wore short frocks, and heavy 
boots and thick stockings. 

Still there was a difference. Mary was the 
only daughter of a very substantial farmer. 
Agnes was the eldest of an ever-growing fam- 
ily composed of herself and six hungry boys, 
for whom it was hard to cook enough, or earn 
enough. So where one child had shillings to 
spend, the other had halfpence. 

Both were preparing for their first Holy 
Communion, and both were doing their very 
best to be ready — to be pure, obedient, long- 
ing, and loving, and both were excited. Next 
Sunday there was to be a competition. The 

49 


50 Two Little Girls at School 

whole catechism was to be repeated and a beau- 
tiful prize was to be given to the child who 
should say it through without a mistake. 

The week passed. Sunday came and with 
it the examination. Mary and Agnes were 
keen on the prize. But Agnes got flustered, 
and when it came to the Beatitudes she could 
not think which was the fifth. After a dead 
pause, for no one might prompt, the mistress 
shook her head and said, “Ah, Agnes, you do 
not know what mercy is!” Mary, however, 
knew and answered quickly; never a stumble 
did she make all through the Beatitudes, the 
Virtues and Vices, the Christian’s Daily Exer- 
cise. The prize was hers. 

“Well!” sighed Agnes, “after myself, I 
would rather she got it!” 

Mary’s rich father was so pleased with his 
little girl, that he gave her ten shillings to buy 
herself something smart. Now she had long 
coveted a brightly-colored silk handkerchief 
for her neck; they were much worn, she said 
to herself, and one with fringe would look 
handsome. 


Two Little Girls at School 


51 


That afternoon Mary came skipping down 
the road with a radiant face to tell Agnes of 
her good luck. That very afternoon she was 
going to buy the precious article. ‘‘Oh, very 
well!” said Agnes, with a sigh. She was silent 
at supper, so silent that her father wondered. 
For what Agnes did not relate at that meal 
was not worth relating. Her father was anx- 
ious and pressed her to come out with her trou- 
ble ; she would be better if it were off her mind, 
he said. So the child told — she did want a 
silk handkerchief. Her mother threw up her 
hands in disgust. 

“What an idea!” she said. “Surely, child, 
your Sunday handkerchief does well enough, 
when I have arranged it myself not to show 
the darning ; I am sure it looks as good as new 
in some lights!” Agnes was a reasonable 
child. She understood the difference between 
herself and her little friend. But the father 
stood up and went to his spare cash-box and 
fumbled a little. He had six sons but only 
one little daughter. With a beaming face he 
laid two five-shilling pieces on the child’s plate 


5 ^ 


Two Little Girls at School 


and looked lovingly down at her. She threw 
her arms round his neck and kissed him with 
joy and gratitude. 

There are horses which can scarcely be got 
past a house where they habitually have a good 
feed of oats; there are women who cannot 
bring themselves to go lightly by a milliner’s; 
there are children who must linger round a 
sweet shop. Just so there are others who can 
never pass, unmoved, a really poor person in 
distress. Agnes was such a one. 

The little pair reached the post office in the 
heart of the town; on the road they had dis- 
cussed the pattern and the color of the hand- 
kerchief, and had concluded they would choose 
the same, whatever it should turn out to be. 
Just as Mary pushed her way into the crowded 
shop, she noticed a very old woman sitting on 
the curb weeping bitterly. She touched Ag- 
nes on the arm. The child turned and asked 
the poor old thing why she cried. Her son, 
a soldier, was at Colchester in hospital, and 
she had been sent for, as there was no hope of 
his recovery. She showed the children the 


Two Little Girls at School 53 

kind officer’s letter, and added it was useless 
to try to reach that town; she was too infirm 
to walk, and she had nothing like enough 
money in her purse. 

“Let’s each give her five shillings,” Agnes 
said immediately. 

Mary turned away. “I don’t think I would 
be allowed,” she answered. And after a mo- 
ment’s hesitation she made her way into the 
shop. 

When Agnes left the woman’s side she had 
not a penny in her purse. At home she told 
all her story; her father did not say much, but 
there was a very bright look in his eyes. And 
the mother exclaimed briskly, “That was how 
the money went, and little they could afford 
it.” 

When the First Communion day came, one 
little girl was dressed in shining white silk; 
the other in her Sunday best only. But no 
heart was more pleasing to Our Lord than the 
heart throbbing with love that knew so well 
what “mercy” was. 


mat, mho %icO 


ipERHAPS you don’t think much of a boy who 
tells lies. And of course it isn’t by any 
means a respectable thing to do. But I want 
you to know that telling lies can be over- 
come, just like any other ugly thing. And 
we overcome things better when we have hope 
than when we have none. Suppose a baby 
learning to walk refused to get up when once 
it fell, do you think it would get on? I don’t 
think it would. I think it would soon become 
a little gutter-child. 

I read a story in which it was shown how 
a boy was cured of lying. Perhaps you will 
read the story yourselves some day. But un- 
til then you would like to know how Nat got 
over his ugly fault. 

Nathaniel — ^that was his proper name — was 
a very good young fellow. He did his lessons 
well; he tried not to be tiresome; he played, 

54 


Nat, Who Lded 


55 


and pleased his masters and his school-fellows. 
But there was one horrid fault Nat had — he 
told lies. They were not often bad lies — ^that 
is, lies that get other people into trouble. But 
still lying is a dangerous habit, and leads to all 
sorts of sins. One of Nat’s masters loved the 
boy particularly and could not bear to see him 
with such a fault. So he made up his mind he 
would help him to cure it. You see people 
can only help us; they can not do it for us. 
We’ve got to do our part, and it is always the 
biggest part, as it ought to be. One day Nat 
told a lie. His master called him to him, and 
Nat cried. “I know it is wrong,” he said, “but 
I am afraid.” Then the good master told the 
boy how he had himself been cured when he 
was a child. His grandmother bade him 
stretch out his tongue; she took her big scissors 
and cut his little red tongue till the blood came. 
For a week the poor boy’s tongue was so sore 
that every word he said was an agony to him. 
But he learned his lesson, and he told no more 
stories after that sharp lesson. 

Now, do you think the master was going to 


56 


Nat, Who Ued 


cure his pupil like that? No. Pain makes 
people often tender towards others. Any- 
way the master’s way was quite different. 
This was to be Nat’s punishment. The 
next time he told a lie he was to punish his 
master. He was to give him six strokes with 
a cane upon each hand. Perhaps you think 
you wouldn’t mind that, that it would be a 
great deal better than being hurt yourself. 
But if you loved your master as Nat did you 
would not think that. Nat was horrified. He 
could not believe his ears. His master was 
going to suffer for him! 

Well, Nat tried with all his might not to 
tell a lie. He tried to be courageous and con- 
fess when he had broken things, and own up 
when he had done wrong. But one sad day 
Nat forgot his resolution, forgot everything, 
and fell into his particular fault. The master 
called him into his private room, and took 
down the cane from a shelf. The cane was 
quite dusty for want of use. With such a mas- 
ter there would not be much caning, you may 
be sure. Nat turned pale when the cane was 


Nat, Who Lied 


57 


put into his hand. “You remember what we 
said?” the professor asked. “O yes, but don’t 
keep to your word,” the poor boy cried. 
“Punish me as much as ever you will, but not 
the other thing; I couldn’t. I couldn’t touch 
you.” The professor was firm. “Give me 
six strokes on each hand, Nat, and strike hard.” 
Nat lifted his arm, shuddered; tried again, and 
after an agony of sorrow struck the fearful 
twelve blows. The dear hands of the master 
were red and swollen. Nat took them in his 
own little palms and buried his face in them, 
and kissed them, and bathed them with his 
tears. Poor little boy! that day’s work was 
never forgotten. He learned his lesson. The 
pain that dear master had borne for his sake 
did what no amount of personal suffering 
could have done; it cured him of his fault. 

That story makes me think of another. 
Does it you? In which somebody suffers that 
others may go free. And by “Whose stripes 
we are healed.” You know of Whom I am 
thinking, I am sure. 


Uon^ 


'^ONY was an Italian by birth. He lived in 
San Remo, and he was only a little street- 
arab. Sometimes he sold lemons and oranges, 
sometimes he helped his father to weigh out 
chestnuts. Often and often he made an 
honest penny by turning splendid somersaults 
up and down the parade. .There a gentle- 
man made friends with the little urchin; he 
bought chestnuts from him; and lemons for 
lemonade; he laughed at his tricks and taught 
him new ones. When the season was over the 
gentleman left the bright, blue sky, and turned 
home to England. Two years passed and the 
visitor returned to the sunny town. And the 
old familiar place brought back thoughts of 
the dark-eyed, mischievous boy. The gentle- 
man stopped at his old hotel and asked after 
Tony. The good-natured proprietor looked 
sad and pointed silently to the cemetery. See- 

58 


59 


Tony 

ing the Englishman was interested he asked 
him to sit down and he would tell him the 
little story of the child’s death. 

There came to San Remo one season a beau- 
tiful child of about five. Her hair was fair 
and her eyes were blue, and there was a grace 
about her every movement as if the fairies 
had endowed her with their own lithesomeness. 
Tony managed to win her good graces. She 
was a child of the upper classes; she was rich 
and had loving parents. But the little maid 
was ill with a deadly illness, and even the 
balmy air of that lovely spot and all the art 
of the doctors could not do anything to stay 
the fearful disease. Olive was dying, dying 
slowly but surely. Tony became her squire; 
he brought her flowers from the wayside, fruit 
from the market, pet kittens from the stables. 
He turned his best somersaults just by her 
chair and made the blue eyes sparkle with a 
short-lived pleasure. The two were insepa- 
rable. As long as the long days lasted they 
sat in the sun. There was nothing Tony 
would not give; no labor Tony would have 


60 Tony 

shirked to give the gentle child one moment’s 
pleasure. 

One day as the two were sitting side by side 
a lady’ came by with bright red Alpine roses 
in her hand. The tired little girl flushed with 
pleasure. 

“Look, Tony,” she said, “those are Alpine 
roses! A little while ago I used to gather 
such like on the mountain-side myself.” 
Tears ran down her pale cheeks. Tony did 
not answer. He was not accustomed to say 
much. That night the boy was missing from 
his bed. No one knew whither he had wan- 
dered. For three days he was searched for in 
vain. At last one evening as the bells rang 
out the Angelus over hill and dale four men 
were seen carrying a bier. Upon it was 
stretched the lifeless body of the peasant child. 
In the dead hand was clasped a bunch of Al- 
pine roses. Nobody knew precisely how he 
had died. Fallen over the chiff, missed his 
footing in the dark probably, they said. Not 
long after another little coffin was carried to 
the cemetery and the two children lay side by 
side. 


TLbc Hrtt6t'0 IReturn 

*j[N ONE of the largest churches in Augsburg 
there was at the beginning of the nineteenth 
century a large painting representing a scene 
from the Crusades. One figure in the fore- 
ground particularly struck the eye. It was 
of a tall, finely-built man, with a refined face 
and noble carriage. He was the painter him- 
self, tradition said, Willibald Wendelin. 
After many years he had returned to his native 
city under the following circumstances: 

One cold afternoon in early autumn a crowd 
of the curious and idle had congregated 
round a notice-board outside an advertising 
shop. On a blackboard, written in white chalk, 
was the following inscription: “Balthasar 
Wendelin, Prefect of the Goldsmiths’ Mer- 
chant Guild of this town, will sell by auction 
in his warehouse all his precious household 

goods. The sale will begin this evening at five. 

61 




The Artis fs Return 


Intending customers may have a private view 
any time before the sale begins.” 

Whilst the crowd expressed its astonish- 
ment in different keys, a young man joined 
them and read the notice. He grew pale, and 
his lip faltered. Turning to one of the by- 
standers, a burly copper-smith, he asked how 
it came to pass that the wealthy merchant, 
Balthasar Wendelin, had fallen so low as to 
be obliged to sell his treasures. The work- 
man eyed the stranger, and noted his fine 
figure, noble bearing, and splendid attire, par- 
ticularly the costly gold chain that hung 
round his neck. The old man, he answered, 
was paying off the debts incurred by his son- 
in-law, a once prosperous trader of Lubeck, 
but who lately had made some unwise specu- 
lations and had been brought to ruin. To save 
the grandchildren from lasting disgrace the 
noble old man had resolved to sacrifice every- 
thing, and was now parting with all that he 
held dearest, the only joys of his old age. 

“The only joys,” the young man said. 
“Has he no children?” 


The Artist's Return 


63 


“Three sons,” was the answer. “His 
daughter is dead. The two elder sons joined 
the Imperial Court, and in its glamour have 
forgotten the father whose genius provided 
them with the wealth they are so well able to 
spend.” 

“But there was another son. What be- 
came of the youngest?” 

“Ah, that is a sad tale. Willibald was a 
likely young fellow. He wanted to be an 
artist, a painter. The father would not hear 
of such a profession; he should be a goldsmith 
like himself or leave the house. Willibald 
took the last alternative, and left his home 
without a word. That is eighteen years ago. 
Since then nothing has been heard of the 
exile.” 

It was time to follow the crowd, which, 
warned by the striking of a neighboring clock, 
was making its way to the merchant’s house. 
The threshold was crowded. Connoisseurs 
were there in hopes of making a bargain, the 
wealthy intending to add to their stores, the 
curious to see what was to be seen, the idle 


64 


The Artist's Return 


to pass away the slow-going hours. Artistic 
vessels of every kind lined the tables and 
shelves : spoons, drinking cups, salvers, 
baskets, vases, plates, dishes, ornaments of the 
purest gold and the most artistic workman- 
ship ever offered. The auction began. There 
was a dead silence. In a recess of the room, 
leaning back in an armchair, sat Balthasar 
Wendelin. His heart was wrung; yet he 
could not keep away from the scene. He felt 
bound to follow every bid though it should 
pierce him through. Piece by piece the 
treasures went, till only the last twenty-seven 
lots remained. They were the most costly of 
all, the particular work of the old man 
himself. When these were placed on view 
Balthasar left his chair and advanced in an ex- 
cited manner to the table where his idols lay. 
His shoulders were much bent; the perspira- 
tion stood on his forehead; his hand trembled. 

“Six drinking cups of fine gold!” 

“Sixty guldens!” one man bid. Instantly 
a deep manly voice capped the sum with “Six 
hundred!” Then there came in quick succes- 


The Artis fs Return 


66 


sion, “Seven hundred,” “Eight,” on to “Two 
thousand golden guldens.” There was a 
silence and the auctioneer said, “Bought!” 
Balthasar hardly breathed; his face was white, 
his knees trembled. Still he kept his place 
near the secretary’s table where the bids were 
recorded. Piece followed piece, and each 
time the same deep voice uttered the final 
bid. 

The sale was over. The auctioneer asked 
for the names of the buyers of the last twenty- 
seven numbers. “They are one and the same,” 
said the secretary. “Let him come up then 
and give his name,” the auctioneer answered 
impatiently. There was a stir from the other 
side of the room; then a tall, well-built man 
advanced. He stood silently by the table. 
The light fell upon the face and the auburn 
curls that hung about it. A priceless fur 
mantle covered his shoulders, a heavy chain of 
gold was clasped around his neck. 

“Here is the money,” he said; “count it.” 

“That is right enough, my friend, but I 
must have your name.” There was a pause. 


66 


The Artisfs Return 


‘‘Willibald Wendelinl” 

Balthasar started, faced round, and looked 
long and earnestly at the face of the young 
man. 

“O Willie, Willie, you have not forgotten 
your poor old father — you bear him no malice! 
You have forgiven and forgotten?” He 
took him in his arms as if he were still a child. 
Willie in tiu’n asked his father’s forgiveness 
for what must have seemed like rank disobedi- 
ence, but which was really genius that could 
not be hidden. Then Willibald explained 
how he had acquired much skill in his art, how 
he had gained a great reputation, had been 
honored with commissions by the emperor, and 
how he had amassed wealth and renown. But 
all through the long and wearisome years of 
his absence, he longed for his kindred, his 
home, his native town. And now he had re- 
turned, never to part, anxious to make his 
father’s life happy, and to be useful in his 
native country. When he finished speaking 
the thronged auction room echoed and echoed 
again with tremendous shouts from the lungs 


The Artisfs Return 


67 


of the lusty burghers, who had listened breath- 
lessly to his explanation. 

Willibald Wendelin was true to his word. 
He lived in his native town and in his father’s 
house. He enriched the town with his works 
of art, and, to commemorate his return, gave 
the picture of the Crusade to the parish 
church. 


Doctor /iDaurice of Sulli^ 

^ET US have a peep at Paris in the twelfth 

century. It was the seat of a university 
even then. Rich students are there in num- 
bers, but the poor are still more numerous. 
Lectures are given in fine large halls, but there 
are no benches. The students sit on trusses 
of hay or straw. They gather at the sound 
of a bell, and drop on to their low seats at 
the last stroke. They have few books, for 
hooks are priceless in value, all written by the 
hand, as you know. Still, the students are 
not so badly off without them as you might 
imagine. They are quick to listen, and their 
memory serves them well. The master’s voice 
rouses enthusiasm in their generous young 
hearts, and the youths learn willingly and make 
it a point of honor to do credit to their teach- 
ers. 

Wandering about the green meadows of St. 


69 


Dr, Maurice of Sully 

Germain you might have seen in the last years 
of the twelfth century a gaunt, ragged boy. 
A glance would have shown you that he was 
ill-fed, ill-lodged, and too poor to afford even 
decent clothing. But his steady gaze, noble 
forehead, and sedate bearing marked him out 
as a clever student, one bent on making his 
way in the world. 

And he did make it. By the alms of the 
charitable the boy was enabled to continue his 
studies, and by his own efforts he passed from 
one degree to another until, on reaching man- 
hood, he was Doctor Maurice of Sully, a title 
coveted by all and gained by comparatively 
few. His fame spread through Paris, from 
Paris to the provinces, until it reached his 
native place and his mother’s cottage. So her 
boy had won a fortune and made himself re- 
nowned, had he? Ah! she had always said 
Maurice would be famous one day, and so he 
was. But the old heart yearned to see her 
son; she longed to take the child of her old 
age into her arms once again. So with the 
energy of love she set out, and with the help 


70 


Dr. Maurice of Sully 

of a stout staff trudged on foot to Paris. 

As soon as the old dame reached the great 
city she asked the passers-hy for Doctor 
Maurice. Some kind, high-bred ladies 
stopped by the side of the peasant woman, 
and hearing her story, promised to bring her 
to the great man. But first they took her 
home, warmed and fed her, and with great 
delicacy threw over her rough russet petticoat 
an elegant cloak that entirely covered the 
marks of poverty. 

Excited with the enthusiastic talk of the 
grand ladies, and full of motherly longing to 
see the far-famed son, the old woman hastened 
with her escort to the hall where Maurice was 
lecturing. She was presented as his mother. 

The Doctor stared at his visitor, and, turn- 
ing to the ladies, declared he did not know 
whom they were presenting to him. 

“My mother is a poor peasant woman; she 
wears no fine clothes like that, I will not be- 
lieve this woman is my mother unless I see 
her woolen petticoat.” 

In a moment the rich cloak was dropped and 


71 


Dr. Maurice of Sully 

the shabby old rustic stood before the Paris 
doctor. Then he took her in his arms lov- 
ingly, and introduced her to his friends and 
students. 

“This is, indeed, my mother 1” he said 
proudly. 

“And the thing spread through the city,” 
says the old chronicler, “and did good honor to 
the master, who afterwards became Bishop of 
Paris.” 

The present Cathedral of Notre Dame at 
Paris was built by Maurice of Sully, the peas- 
ant’s son. 


strange But Urue 


^jl^OTHERS are people who are very hard to 
understand, as you will see by this story. 

A rich widow lady had been ill for some 
time and had been taking the baths at a re- 
nowned health resort which we will call Belle 
Vue. She had no children and yet pined for 
some. In her walks she often went through 
a sweet little village where the people were 
mostly Catholics. She used to look at the fair 
faces of the children and wish so very much 
she had one of her own to train and educate 
and love. One day she took a resolution that 
she would adopt one and make it all her own. 
There must be many mothers in the little place 
who would be only too glad to give their little 
ones such a chance, she thought. So she 
called on the parish priest and asked him to 
advise her. He thought her plan excellent, 

and was sure she would find some mother 
73 


Strange But True 73 

grateful for the offer. Many of them had 
ten children and very little to feed them on. 

The widow, Mrs. James, sought the house 
of the poorest of the families and went in. 
The room was clouded with smoke; there was 
one stool, a roughly-made table, and a few 
cooking utensils on the walls. The mother 
stood by the fire with her youngest child in her 
arms. The others seemed to swarm about her 
feet like chickens. 

“Good day, my lady,” the woman said, and 
turned round to welcome the stranger; “take 
a seat and tell me what I can do for you.” 
The woman’s face was sweet and her manner 
quite natural. The lady sat down and for a 
few minutes did not find it altogether easy 
to tell her story. At last she said what was 
in her mind. She wanted a child to come with 
her to Scotland to be her very own. 

The mother did not understand at once. 
The children were too small to go to service, 
she said; there was not one who could do a 
day’s work yet. The widow explained more 
clearly; she wanted to adopt a child; she would 


74 


Strange But True 

bring it up as her own and would pay the 
parents a good round sum of money to help 
them in their poverty. A hundred pounds or 
two, she said, would make very little diff erence 
to her. The poor woman looked dazed for a 
moment. A hundred pounds would be ab- 
solute wealth to them; she could build a shed 
for the cow; put in new rafters, and make the 
cottage snug, and buy new clothes for the 
children. They had not a whole garment to 
their backs, she said. And they certainly bore 
out the statement by their appearance. More- 
over, it would be a splendid chance for the 
child ; it would have advantages that its parents 
never could give it. 

Seeing the mother so well disposed, the 
widow began to look from one to the other 
of the little group. They had ranged them- 
selves round her instinctively by ages, and were 
staring into her face. The eldest was a fine 
boy of twelve, with bright, intelligent eyes and 
a winning smile. 

“How about this boy?” the widow began. 

“Now, why should you just hit upon him?” 


75 


Strange But Trw 

the mother answered, good-naturedly. “He’s 
my eldest and will be able to earn a wage in 
a few months. Tell the lady what you’re go- 
ing to be, Joseph.” 

“Shoemaker,” said the boy, brightly. 

“Ah, then, perhaps we had better think of 
this little girl.” 

Frances gazed into the mother’s face with 
her eyes full of tears. The mother saw them, 
and answered for her quickly. “Frances 
would be fair out of it in a strange house. 
She knows no way but the way to the church 
and her home.” 

Once more the lady chose. “These two fine 
children here, you could let me have one of 
these?” 

Tony and Minnie held tight together, and 
looked wistfully at their mother. “Ah, you 
see, them’s twins; if you take one, you’d be 
bound to take the other; and two we couldn’t 
spare by no means.” 

“Then let me have this child with the rosy 
cheeks and quick glance; she will soon make 
friends, I am sure.” 


76 


Strange But True 

“Na, you can’t have her; I dursn’t face the 
father if you was to take that there one; he be 
that fond of her, as there’s no saying.” 

With a sigh, the patient widow turned to the 
next in the row, a sturdy boy with his hands 
in his pockets and his mouth screwed up as if 
he were whistling privately. The mother saw 
the look and answered: “Yes, Bobby would 
be a good one to go, but he’s that set on being a 
jockey as education couldn’t have a chance. 
Besides, bless you, ma’am, he’d never leave his 
ma, wouldn’t that boy.” 

A very shy little maid was hiding her face in 
her mother’s apron and could not be got to 
show up at all. When her mother scolded 
her crossly for being “a stoopid,” she began to 
howl so unbearably that the eldest boy took 
her out in disgrace. 

“Yes, there is another of ’em in that corner,” 
said the good woman with a sigh. “That’s 
the pet of all, but we shan’t rear it, the doctor 
says; it’s dying, I fear, is little Paul.” 

Mrs. James turned away from the pale face 
in the wooden box that served for a cradle 


Strange But True 77 

and replaced the ragged coverlet over the tiny 
feet. 

“And now you’ve been through them all, my 
lady, and you see as there isn’t so much as one 
as we can spare. If there had been just one 
more, perhaps I couldn’t have said you nay, 
but as there’s only these nine, I can’t find it in 
my heart to miss one of them; and so would 
the father say. I’ll be bound.” 

At that moment the Angelus was rung from 
the church steeple, and Frances gathered the 
flock round her and began the sacred words. 
The widow looked at the sweet baby faces and 
wondered if really with so much love and con- 
tentment they could be called poor, and 
whether with all her wealth she could have 
brought any one of them up to be better 
Cathohcs and better citizens. 

But don’t you think mothers are strange 
people? This good soul could have got rid of 
a tiresome chick for good and all, and yet she 
would not part with one! Can you understand 
it? Ask your mother what she thinks. 


©ne Generation of tbe Ibouse of Garai^e 

'^OWARD the end of the seventeenth century 
there lived in the Castle of Garaye a young 
nobleman named Claud Marot. He was the 
lord of the land, the darling of the country- 
side. He had married the lady of his love, and 
they lived in perfect happiness, surrounded by 
all that makes life happy. They had youth 
and wealth, affection and honor; they had 
health and strength. They shared the same 
tastes, they enjoyed the same pleasures. 

Perhaps most of all, the young couple liked 
hunting. One day they organized a splen- 
did run. The air was fresh and keen; the 
scent was good. Over hill and dale they went 
on their superb mounts. The count led. But 
in the eagerness of pursuit he failed to notice 
the change in the ground. He had come upon 
bowlders and untrodden shingle; then to the 

78 


79 


The House of Garaye 

side of a broiling brook, which in its headlong 
career had foamed into a waterfall, and 
swamped the ground around. Horror-struck, 
Claud noticed his horse sinking under him. 
Luckily the sensitive animal felt the peril. It 
reared, disengaged itself, and with a mighty 
spring cleared the stream and landed safely 
on the other side. In mid-air, even, the young 
man thought of his wife’s danger. He waved 
her back, he shouted. To no purpose; with 
bhnd trust in him the fair girl urged her horse 
on his track; the animal plunged and leapt, 
reached the opposite bank, but fell upon her 
rider. In a moment Claud was at her side. 
He removed the dead horse, and tried every 
restorative in his power. Never had he seen 
her look more beautiful; he parted the hair 
from her forehead and bathed her temples. 
After some time, which seemed an eternity, the 
hunting party missed their chief and returned 
seeking him. With their help a simple litter 
was contrived and the wounded girl taken to 
her home a crushed, mangled heap. 

The Countess of Garaye recovered. That 


80 The House of Garaye 

is to say, she did not die. But the doctor’s 
verdict rang in the ears of her husband : 
“Crooked and sick must she ever be!” His 
beautiful young wife a cripple always and suf- 
fering and weak! The Countess herself 
mourned and grieved. She could not be re- 
signed. What had she done to deserve such a 
punishment? she asked. Her face lost its 
happy look. There were lines there that did 
not come from suffering only. They were 
caused by resentment and anger. Everything 
that love could do was done for the invalid. 
Her rooms were filled with brightness and sun- 
shine; the greatest delicacies were sought far 
and near to tempt the appetite. No wish 
expressed ever remained unanswered. Still 
there was no sign of contentment, or return- 
ing happiness. The Count suffered as much, 
or more, than his lady. 

One day a Benedictine, old and experienced 
in the ways of men, called at the castle. He 
visited the sick room and won the heart of the 
young sufferer. By degrees he drew from 
her all her temptations, all her fears. Claud 


81 


The House of Gar aye 

would cease to love her, she murmured; she 
could no longer be his companion; she could 
not wait upon him in the field; she could not 
welcome his return on the step, and give him 
the first greeting. He would tire of her ill- 
health, and would seek elsewhere for his pleas- 
ure. Poor child! she opened out her heart 
with all its suspicions. Then she wound up 
with her first cry, “What had she done to de- 
serve such a doom?” 

The monk had his say. He told her of an- 
other Sufferer who was innocent, yet who suf- 
fered more than all the people of the world 
put together. He told her of homes where no 
ray of love or of sunshine ever entered; of 
cripples who had no nurses; of patients who 
had no doctors ; of orphans who had no 
mothers. He took her away from her own 
pains and showed her those who suffered more. 
She listened out of politeness first, but soon 
from interest. Claud sat near and watched 
the hard lines disappear from the loved face; 
he saw that compassion was softening her 
heart. She grumbled less; was more patient. 


The House of Garay e 

more grateful. He implored the holy monk 
to prolong his stay. Soon a resolution formed 
itself in the invalid’s mind. She would ask 
her husband if they could spend some, at 
least, of the wealth which God had given them 
upon the suffering poor. Claud listened as 
one entranced. Whatever she devised he would 
carry out, he told her. Then there rose upon 
the territory of La Garaye, hospitals, orphan- 
ages, schools. And the people about blessed 
the Count and Countess. She was spoken of 
as “the dear lady of the liberal hand” whose 
one sickness had cured a thousand. 

Was the Countess happier sick or well, do 
you think? 

If you go to Dinan perhaps you will see 
the ruins of the Castle of La Garaye where 
the good Count Claud and his Countess lived 
and did good deeds. 


Ubc IRent 


'^HERE was an old Irishman once who was in 
arrears with his rent. He had done his 
very best to earn enough money to pay it, but 
weeks passed and weeks came, and still he was 
always behind. What could he do? He 
worked hard whenever there was work to be 
got. He denied himself everything that was 
not absolutely necessary. He made up his 
mind he would pray. One day as he was go- 
ing to Mass he knelt by the wayside crucifix 
and prayed out loud. Wouldn’t his Saviour 
give him his rent now; sure he had worked 
and toiled and he hadn’t so much as a penny 
toward it ; and Saturday was coming on apace. 
“Sure now I’ll expect it of you. Lord, by this 
time on Saturday. I shall be going to the 
holy Mass and I’ll come and take it from 
these steps; and I know as you’ll not be de- 
ceiving me.” 

8S 


84 


The Rent 


Just below the high road there ran a field 
screened off by a wall. The parish priest 
happened to be going to church by the fields. 
He was saying Office, hut stopped when he 
heard the sound of a voice in the still morning 
air. He listened and heard the poor man’s 
prayer, and it made him thoughtful. Now 
nobody could say that Father Mike had more 
than he could spare. His tithes did not bring 
in riches, and his collections on Sundays were 
copper without a gleam of silver, and though 
they were given with generous hearts they 
added up into as easy a sum of addition as 
any child in his parish could do by himself. 
Still, Pat mustn’t be disappointed. He would 
go that way to church on the Saturday and 
expect to find his ten shillings there as sure as 
the crucifix itself. 

On Friday Pat came again by the way and 
he knelt at the step just to remind his Master 
of the sum for the morrow. “Sure it’s just tin 
shillings I’m asking. It’s not what You 
might call a ruinous sum. You’ll mind and 
give it for the sweet Mother’s sake.” And 


The Rent 


85 


Pat went on to Mass. Very early next morn- 
ing Father Mike came with his breviary. He 
was going by the high road and he was look- 
ing guiltily around. Not a soul was in sight. 
The birds were singing, the grass was wet; 
the steps moist and dark. The old man 
counted out twelve shillings and laid them 
with a glow of pleasure at the foot of the 
crucifix. He felt as if he were acting as God’s 
providence to one very dear to Our Lord. 
His next thought was to hide and watch the 
poor man’s coming from his ditch. Through 
a breach in the wall he could see what was 
passing on the road. Pat was approaching. 
His walk was fast and confident and he 
whistled as he came. He flung himself down 
on his knees and took off his cap and said his 
prayer; then he reached out his hand and took 
the money. “Sure there it is right enough, 
and the blessings of a sorrow-stricken man 
be on you. Holy Mother and your gracious son. 
Tin shillings and two over. Them’ll be for 
some other poor soul as has been asking the 
same favor. So I’ll leave them here where 


86 


The Rent 


they’ll come and find them in the twinkling of 
an eye, no doubt.” So he laid down the two 
shilhngs and took himself off with his ten and 
a light heart. 

The parish priest came out of his hiding- 
place and pocketed the money left on the 
step. There was a beautiful smile on the old 
face and he said an extra act of thanksgiv- 
ing that morning after Mass for Pat and him- 
self. 


XTbe Doctor’s Visit 


^R. Home was a renowned physician of 
Manchester. Rich and poor, high and 
lowly loved and honored him as the cleverest 
and best of doctors and men. 

One day he had ridden early in the morning 
to a suburb at some little distance from the 
town. He returned about mid-day very tired, 
but with time only to get his lunch and start 
afresh upon his rounds in the city. It was a 
bitterly cold day in late autumn. There was 
a drizzling rain; the ground was soaking wet 
and the roads slippery. But the doctor put 
his best foot foremost and went with a word 
of comfort and encouragement from one sick 
bed to the other. It was nearly ten o’clock 
when, too tired almost to eat, he went up to 
his bed. His last injunction was that, let who 
might come, he was not to be disturbed again. 

There were other doctors in Manchester and 
87 


88 


The Doctors Visit 


plenty of them; let them be called up, he had 
done his share that day. 

So his wife assured him the whole house 
would be quiet, and that nothing and nobody 
should come near his door. About eleven 
there was a loud ringing at the bell. The 
lady went out herself to see who could he in 
such need. Standing on the doorstep was a 
man whose face was white with dread and anx- 
iety. He was a poor worlonan, father of five 
children; his wife lay at death’s door. “Oh, 
for God’s sake listen to my prayer. Rouse 
the doctor and beg him to come to our help, 
or else we shall lose the most loving of wives 
and mothers.” The lady told the poor fellow 
how the matter stood; how she could not wake 
her tired husband. She gave him the address 
of an excellent doctor, a friend of theirs, who 
would surely go. Very sadly the father 
turned away from the door; to say the least 
there would be delay in going to another, and 
nobody was worth half as much as Doctor 
Home. 

Deeply compassionate, the lady went to her 


The' Doctor's Visit 


89 


room, but her heart was too full of pity to let 
her sleep. She knelt down by the bedside and 
prayed. Home was awake; he had heard the 
bell and asked what was all the noise about. 
She told him. He turned over and thanked 
her. ‘‘Of course Dr. Wells will go, I am 
really too tired to move.” In a few minutes 
he was again fast asleep. Another hour 
passed. Then there came another loud ring 
at the bell. Mrs. Home jumped up and 
opened the door quickly. The same man stood 
on the step, the perspiration trickling down 
his white face. “As you are a mother, a wife 
and a Christian, call your husband and bid 
him come with me.” 

“But have you not been to Dr. Wells?” she 
asked. 

“Indeed I have, but he either will not or 
can not come. For God’s sake don’t turn me 
away,” he cried in an agony. 

“My good fellow, go to Dr. Bell, I am sure 
he will go with you.” 

“I beseech and implore you, don’t send me 
on another fool’s errand,” the man answered. 


90 


The Doctor's Visit 


“Whilst I am away my poor wife may die.” 
The doctor’s wife could withstand him no 
longer. She went gently into the sleeping 
man’s room and told him what had happened. 

“Let him go to Bell,” he answered, angrily. 
“I will not be disturbed in my sleep like this.” 
The poor lady turned away with a sad heart, 
just as her husband seemed to fall asleep again. 
As kindly as she possibly could she told the 
despairing man what her husband had said. 
Without a word he rushed down the street. 
Scarcely, however, was the door shut when the 
wife heard shuffling steps beside her. She 
looked round; there was Home finishing a 
hasty toilet in the passage, muttering to 
himself. 

“Send after that man as quickly as you 
can,” he snapped. “I can’t sleep, my con- 
science won’t let me.” Very soon the two men 
were hurrying down the street together. 

When two struck from the great tower, the 
doctor’s step was heard on the stairs. 

“How is the poor woman?” his wife asked 
eagerly. 


The Doctor’s Visit 


91 ^ 


“Doing well. I promised that you would 
send her soup every day for the next few 
weeks. She was in dreadful danger; but 
thank God that is over. Now I will get back 
to bed, and I hope nobody will disturb me 
again. But let me tell you this, my good 
soul, another time I will go at once^ for it is 
not easy work fighting against one’s con- 
science.” 

Don’t you feel you like that doctor? I do. 
You know people say that there are three pro- 
fessions very like each other: priest, doctor, 
and soldier. Can you see why? 


TKIlbere tbe /ibone^ Goes 

^LEC was a grocer’s boy; that is to say he 
worked for the grocer, ran errands, 
tidied the shop, unpacked the vegetables, 
sorted the fruit, and now and then served a 
customer. It was Saturday, and Alec was 
running home full of glee. He burst into his 
mother’s little house and threw down a whole 
half-crown upon the deal table. The mother 
smiled and watched her boy’s face. “There, 
mother,” Alec said, “there is my first wage. 
It is all for you and will keep us off the street, 
won’t it?” Mrs. Wood smiled again, but 
there was some humor this time in the smile. 
“Well, my boy, a half-crown is a very wel- 
come coin in this estabhshment, and I am glad 
to see you have earned a bit for your own 
keep. You go on as you have been a-doing, 
and there’s many a crown piece as ’ll find its 
way into your pocket, before you’ve a beard, 
I daresay.” Alec was satisfied. He watched 


93 


Where the Money Goes 

the coin drop into the brown teapot and then 
settled himself to his afternoon’s work — 
cleaning the boots for Sunday, cutting wood, 
filling the coal scuttle, and peeling the po- 
tatoes. There wasn’t an idle bone in the boy, 
as his mother said many a time when the 
father found fault with his son’s tongue or 
his pushing ways. Two weeks passed, and 
Mrs. Wood thought she noticed a cloud on 
the boy’s brow. “What’s to do, Alec?” she 
said, one morning. “You’ve not been so spry 
of late; aren’t you well?” “Mother,” said 
Alec, “I’ll tell you, though it does seem a 
queer thing to say. I want to know where 
all my money goes to? You can’t be spend- 
ing all those half-crowns as I get every week, 
with nothing lying by ! A chap works hard 
for six days and doesn’t spend a farthing^ on 
hisself, and yet he hasn’t a penny for a” — 
he was going to say “cigarette,” but checked 
himself in time — “for an apple or a sweet. 
I’m sure I could make a coin like yon go 
further than you do. You see when you 
comes to work for money you begins to know 


94 


Where the Money Goes 

its value.’* Mrs. Wood smiled secretly, and 
looked down at her own sodden hands, that 
told so plainly what her profession was. But 
she entered into the spirit of the thing and 
answered: “Now, my lad, I think that’s a 
very good say for you. And we’ll just bide 
by a bargain. I’ll give yer lodging and fir- 
ing and clothes, but you shall find yerself in 
food. And I’ll cook whatever yer brings to 
me to be cooked, and you shall live on your 
own earnings with nothing out of my store, 
and then you will see how the money goes.” 

Alec was delighted. He took back his 
half-crown and went out shopping. Now 
Alec was a hungry boy and liked substantial 
things ; he laid out his money for his Sunday’s 
dinner with no stinting hand; Monday’s meals 
were also purchased, and Tuesday came. But 
lo! there were only a few pence left. The boy 
pushed his hands deep into his pockets and set 
out to buy a roll. When he returned, his 
mother asked where was the food for dinner. 
Alec growled something about not being 
hungry; he would eat just what was left. 


95 


Where the Money Goes 

The mother did not say a word, though her 
good heart ached for the lad. She brought 
out a very small piece of steak and a potato, 
left from yesterday’s superfluity, and 
warmed them up. Wednesday things were 
worse. There was nothing left, and no 
money. “But where’s the money gone to, 
Alec?” said his mother. “This is only Wed- 
nesday and you’ve to live on until the end of 
the week?” Alec looked ready to cry. 
“Mother,” he said, “I know now where the 
money goes. Will you buy my dinners for 
me?” 

Now Alec had learned a lesson for life. 
He never asked his mother again what had 
become of his half-crown. And he made a 
tremendous effort to earn a better wage. 
And that little grocer’s assistant lived to com- 
mand a ship and be his own master. And a 
good master he made! This is a true story, 
children. And I knew the little boy’s god- 
mother, a holy nun, who was as clever as Alec 
in her way, though she never commanded a 
ship. 


IPromises 


^OEY came tripping merrily from school; he 
sang and he whistled and hopped like a bird 
on the path; it was a glorious autumn day; 
bright red leaves everywhere, and warm sun 
and a blue sky. Besides, the boy was hungry; 
he had been sitting on hard school benches all 
the morning ; at playtime he had eaten a round 
of bread, but one round does not go far at 
ten years of age. 

His mother heard the warbling in the air 
and rose softly from her potato-peeling just 
for the pleasure of seeing her boy come so 
joyously down the road. For Joey was the 
apple of her eye, the hope of the little house. 

“Come in, my chick,” the good woman cried. 
“Don’t you smell how savory the dinner is?” 
Didn’t hel He flung off his cap and said his 
grace in almost the same movement, and was 
sitting in front of his steaming plate, before 

96 


Promises 


97 


you could have had one wish. His mother 
watched him and thanked God for the boy’s 
health and sweet content. But his dinner was 
certainly an extra good one. It was nothing 
less than hare! Ah! you may well wonder 
where such poor people got a hare from; and 
thereby hangs a tale. Joey’s father was 
wood-cutter on a certain duke’s estate. But 
though a good workman, he was in rather 
bad odor at the time of our story. He had 
been known to poach rabbits and hares, though 
no one had ever seen him with a gun or had 
ever found a trap within his beat. All the 
same Joe of hill-side was a knowing one, his 
mates said ; and he was as expert with his air- 
gun as many another with a more deadly 
weapon. Sometimes young Nanny, his wife, 
would upbraid him for poaching, but Joe got 
the best of the argument and Nanny cooked 
the questionable game. 

“You know quite well, Joe,” she would say, 
“Father More told you it was wrong to go 
a-shooting of them wild things!” 

“Well, you couldn’t expect Father More to 


98 


Promises 


say it was right, could you?” Joe would an- 
swer. “But it isn’t such a big sin after all; 
besides winter’s coming!” And Joe shuffled 
off with his ax. That day the wood-cutter 
had had splendid luck; he had met a hare on 
his very path, and had shot it dead, and picked 
it up out of the wet grass before any one was 
about in the morning. Then he had returned 
home content with his dinner. 

The very same day Joey, the lad, had 
done his work extra well. “There is a new 
mistress,” he explained, “and she don’t un- 
derstand any nonsense. You’ve got to 
work.” So the slate came out and the pen- 
cil was sharpened and the sums were rubbed 
in and rubbed out often enough, but were 
done at last. The mother had stood and 
watched the performance and wondered at 
the boy’s quickness. 

But when the sums were finished, Joe 
wanted more occupation; so he looked round 
the room. There was his father’s gun all 
ready for play. He took it up and pointed 
it like a game-keeper. . But, alas! it went 


Promises 


off, and struck the boy a blow in the fore- 
head. He fell to the ground quite uncon- 
scious, and working with his feet like one in 
a fit. His mother had him in her arms in a 
moment, and was screaming for the father. 
Old Joe came and turned white as a sheet. 
He stroked the boy’s hair; he rubbed his 
hands ; he poured brandy down his throat, but 
to no purpose. The doctor was called and 
said something about congestion of the brain. 
“Some recovered,” he said, “some did not.” 
He could not say. 

It would be hard to express how much the 
poor parents suffered in anxiety and sorrow. 
But with care and love, and the best they 
could afford, little Joe got better. The gun 
was put into the hay-loft, and Old Joe made 
a solemn promise he would never go poach- 
ing any more. 

Two months the gun lay in the hay. The 
hares had grown so tame you would have 
thought they had known of the resolution. 
Joe’s old longing came back strong. Of 
course he could not go poaching. The boy 


100 


Promises 


had recovered and was well. Ah, but that 
was because he and Nanny had made a pil- 
grimage. Yes, it was the pilgrimage that 
did it; he would just go up and see the gun, 
there could be no harm in that. He went up, 
touched the long tube, rubbed it on his 
sleeve, prepared it, and went out. And the 
hare came out, too, and there was a shot, 
which was the beginning of many more. 

Winter passed and spring came. Joey 
was the joy of his parents; they were never 
tired of hearing him sing and laugh and 
play. In the evening the father and son had 
games together, or told each other stories, or 
did a little wood-carving. But one day the 
child’s footstep was slow; there was no sing- 
ing nor whistling; he dragged his feet and 
he hung his head. And when he reached the 
door of the little cottage he pushed it open 
and just flung himself on to the rug and 
sobbed. His mother put him to bed and the 
doctor came. “Ah, another case,” he said. 
“Diphtheria, as sure as a gun! There are 
several down in the village with it.” Old Joe 


Promises 


101 


and his wife stood as if struck. They said 
not a word, but looked at each other in utter 
misery. Then came a struggle for life. The 
priest came, the good Father More, and he 
sat by Joey’s bed and asked him questions. 
He helped him with his confession and gave 
him absolution, and soothed the poor parents. 
He said aspirations with the boy, just such 
short ones as the poor little fellow could 
manage, and he promised to come again. 
And the nights and days were long and hard 
and anxious. “O my God, spare my only 
bairn ; he is our only one. Don’t take 
him, dear Lord, please don’t take him,” 
the father cried. He never left the child’s 
bed, and he made another solemn promise, 
never again would he handle his gun, no, 
never, never! 

Joey struggled for three terrible nights, 
and had he not been strong of constitution, 
he would never have lived; but his mother’s 
prayers and his father’s promise were heard. 
The child one day fell into a sweet sleep and 
he was saved. That very next morning Old 


102 


Promises 


Joe took his gun, laid it upon the block, and 
hacked it to pieces. So it never led him into 
temptation any more. That summer he made 
a pilgrimage to a chapel he loved, and fasted 
for three days in thanksgiving for the life of 
his boy. 


/iDarble or Breab 


OLD lady lay in bed, in a dainty room 
clean as soap and water and brushes 
could make it. Her face was white, and her 
long, thin hands lay limp upon the counter- 
pane. Life was practically over for Miriam 
Audley. And life seemed a failure. She 
was alone now. No one came to see her; she 
had no friends, no relations; seldom was an 
acquaintance found to visit her in her lonely 
hours. Yet Miriam Audley was one of those 
who, like their Master, had gone about do- 
ing good. She had visited the sick, and com- 
forted the sorrowful; she had visited prisons 
even ; she had brought joy and happiness many 
a time into homes where there was little of 
either. 

This day, the poor forsaken invalid thought 
of the years that were past, the days of her 
youth, when she had been admired and sought 

103 


104 


Marble or Bread 


after. For s^e had been a beauty in her day. 
In a well-known gallery of painting there 
was a fancy picture of a young girl of strik- 
ing loveliness, with roses in her hands, stand- 
ing by the sick bed of a girl. The artist had 
painted what he had seen, Miriam on an er- 
rand of charity. 

It was a day in May, and suddenly the 
invalid remembered that it was her birthday. 
Instinctively, the longing for a kindly re- 
membrance rose in the poor starved soul. 
She listened for footsteps, she harkened to 
the door bells, she pictured to herself the 
lovely flowers in the market-place, the lilies, 
the hyacinths, the early roses. The day 
passed and none came for her. The tears 
roUed down her face. She felt her loneli- 
ness acutely. The bright sun’s rays came too 
strongly on her face. She dared not ring her 
bell. For her maid, though in her own way 
devoted, was given to grumbling, to banging 
of doors and sulky speeches if disturbed un- 
necessarily, as she would think. 

Miriam remembered once picking roses in 


Marble or Bread 


105 


her own rose-garden. The doctor, the same 
who attended her now, came by, and asked 
her how she could spoil the beauty of her 
pleasure ground by such wholesale cutting. 
“Joys once lost never return,” he said. 
Then there followed a discussion about alms- 
giving. He quoted Goethe, who was strong 
about the best way to spend wealth. To im- 
poverish oneself for the sake of another was 
but to make another pauper in the world. 
But she answered, that the same poet had 
said in a better moment that there could be 
no higher or nobler thought than doing good 
to others. 

But as she lay there on her bed all alone, 
for one moment Miriam Audley wondered if 
she might not have done better than bestow 
her sweetness upon those who had forsaken 
her just when she wanted comfort and love 
so much. She longed to die and be laid to 
rest in the quiet cemetery. Ah, yes! even 
there her solitary existence would continue, 
she thought; no one would look after her 
grave; no one would come there to pray. 


106 


Marble or Bread 


You see the poor soul was very low-spirited, 
and when we’re low-spirited things look very 
black indeed. She had done wonderful 
things for God’s poor and for love of Him, 
and there was a great reward laid up for her. 
But a sort of cloud had come over her mind 
and she saw only the things that were really 
very sad. 

Suddenly a thought struck her. She 
would have her grave made beautiful; she had 
a sum of money in the bank; she would make 
her will, and ordain that the money should 
be spent upon a marble monument that would 
remind people of beautiful Miriam Audley. 
There should be the same features that had 
called forth the admiration of the great 
painter. She stretched out her feeble hand 
for her notebook and pencil, and was just go- 
ing to make a rough draft of a will when the 
old doctor entered. He noticed at once the 
bright light in the eye and was very glad. 

“Ah! I like to see you with that bright 
smile and those shining eyes. I have feared 
of late that you were being conquered in the 


Marble or Bread 


107 


last struggle, and it grieved me. I was afraid 
you were getting discouraged and low- 
spirited.” 

“I should have enough to make me low- 
spirited, doctor,” she answered, '‘if I thought 
of the days that are gone.” Then she told 
him of her new project. He listened atten- 
tively and watched her face; it had a bright 
flush upon it and there was something of the 
enthusiasm of youth in it. But he was grave. 
And when his patient had finished, he paused 
a moment, and then said: 

“Miss Audley, this is the first selfish thought 
you have ever had, I think. It is an artistic 
and beautiful thought, and perfectly just. 
You deserve such a monument and it would 
be a thing of joy to passers-by. But why 
should we be remembered in this world? We 
are like soldiers fighting shoulder to shoulder; 
one falls and the rest pass on; the dead are 
buried as they lie, or in one wide tomb. So 
ought we to be content to do our duty. Ah! 
you see I am preaching to you, you, who once 
taught me many things.” 


108 


Marble or Bread 


The invalid put her hand up to her face, 
and the doctor, beheving she was tired, soon 
took his leave. But she was thinking, and 
making her last sacrifice. She took her note- 
book once more in her hand and made the 
rough draft of her will. The sum of money 
was bequeathed to the doctor to spend upon 
his most deserving patients. 

Was that better than a beautiful monu- 
ment, do you think? 


1R0SCB 


*j[ WOULD like you children to get to know 
Adelaide Procter’s poems, because they 
are pretty in form and beautiful in thought. 
She had a lofty mind; I mean she loved the 
good and the noble, all that is generous and 
great. And those are the minds that we 
ought to model our own upon. This is one 
of her stories, only she tells it in verse and it 
sounds much prettier. 

It was Christmas time. The snow lay on 
the ground, the street lamps burned brightly, 
the shops were resplendent with light. One 
great house in a fashionable square stood out 
gloomily against the dark sky. There was 
sickness there. The heir of a glorious house 
lay dying. He was only a little boy, but he 
was the hope and joy of his parents, and noth- 
ing could save him. Great doctors had done 
their best and failed, as human skill is wont 

109 


110 


Roses 


to fail. By the child’s bed sat his mother. 
Her face was almost as worn as that of her 
child, for a mother suffers what her child 
suffers. At last, as the night faded into 
morning, the httle one’s moans suddenly 
stopped; he raised his blue eyes and looked 
with a radiant face upwards. He saw a 
vision which no other eyes could see. By his 
bed stood a lovely being, a spirit with a glory 
round his head. He lifted the tiny child in 
his arms, and as he folded him to his breast 
placed upon the little heart some rich roses 
from Paradise. The boy looked wonder- 
ingly at his guardian’s face. Then the sweet 
spirit told him this story: 

Long ago, one beautiful summer day, a lit- 
tle boy was playing in a fine garden. The 
sun was hot overhead; the flowers were gay 
around; the boy was full of hfe and joy. 
Plucking some blossoms from a shrub, he 
tossed their petals into the air, and laughed 
to see them fall in showers over his fair head. 
An attendant standing near watched the 
child’s sport, but as he moved a little to one 


Roses 


111 


side he noticed the pinched face of a beggar 
boy thrust between the bars of the garden 
railings. The boy’s eyes shone with excite- 
ment as he followed the game of the petals. 
At last the servant could bear the sight of the 
miserable child no longer. In harsh tones he 
bade him begone. At the sound of the words 
the sunny boy stopped his play, broke off 
some red roses from his favorite tree, and 
gave them, with gentle words, to the poor 
little outcast at the gate. The child turned 
away, his brain in a whirl of joy. Never be- 
fore had he handled flowers, never before had 
he seen such blossoms or heard one speak so 
kindly. He pressed them to his wan face, he 
drank in their sweet perfume, and hurried 
through the streets up to his own poor gar- 
ret. He was rich now — as rich as the boy 
in the garden, he thought. That night the 
httle beggar and the beautiful flowers died 
together. 

The guardian spirit stopped speaking. 
He looked into the face of his little charge. 
“I was that beggar child, and I have been 


112 


Roses 


sent to conduct you to heaven because of the 
joy you gave me that day,” he said. 

When Christmas morning dawned the 
grand house in the square was desolate; the 
heir to all its wealth was dead. But the joy- 
ous smile on the features and the happy smile 
round the mouth comforted the loving 
parents, who knew that their son was safe 
with One who loved him more even than they 
could. 


Ube TKIlibow’s Meb 

*|[|]miLLiAM Rufus had gone to Newcastle- 
on-Tyne. He was in a terrible passion 
with the Scotch ; they had wasted all the north 
of England and butchered old and young, 
priests and laymen. As William advanced 
his foe fled, for they knew the Conqueror’s 
son was as terrible in his anger as the Con- 
queror himself. One day there came up the 
river Tyne ships from West Anglia; they 
carried corn for the king’s soldiers. The 
crews were rude, savage men who on land 
owned no master. They raided the country 
round the port, and, hke the foe they had 
come to destroy, they devastated far and 
near. 

There was an old woman who lived alone 
upon the scrap of land left to her by her father. 
Her only means of subsistence was weaving; 
but so old was she that in a year she could 

113 


114 


The Widow's Web 


manage to make but one web, a strip of cloth 
which when sold just enabled her to live. As 
she was carrying this precious web to sell it, 
some sailors attacked her, and robbed her of 
her treasure. She implored the men not to 
take her web from her; it could not be of much 
value to them, she said; to her it was all in 
all. But they only jeered at her, and one 
man snatched it away and went off. The 
poor old woman fell on her knees and begged 
the great St. Oswin to help her in her need. 
But days went by, and the roving sailors 
sailed away. She saw their fleet sweep 
towards Lindisfame; the wind was fair and 
they made good speed. Veiy sorrowfully the 
poor woman turned homeward. She had 
prayed to the great saint who loved the 
Northumbrians so well, and he had not heard 
her prayer. The robber had come and 
despoiled her of her all. 

Bravely the vessels sailed; it was a prosper- 
ous voyage; the fleet came to Coquet Island; 
the sea was like glass; the place rocky; the 
sailors careless. Suddenly a storm arose. 


The Widow's Web 


115 


very softly at first, then it grew, the wind 
howled, the waves dashed upon the beach; the 
ships became entangled in the surf; they were 
dashed upon the rocks and broken like match- 
wood. Then the northern blasts set in, and 
drifted the wrecks southward. 

The morning after the storm the beach at 
Tynemouth was strewn with the dead and 
their spoils. Not a thing stolen from that 
coast but was returned by the avenging 
ocean. 

At first the poor peasants dared not show 
themselves ; they thought the wind that 
brought a wreck might bring an enemy. So 
at first they hid in their rocks and forests. 
When at last they saw no trace of a human 
being, they came down to the shore and sought 
among the spoils for what was their own. 
Last of all to come was the old woman. She 
could only move by the help of a stick; and 
the shingly beach was troublesome ground for 
one so feeble. She went from one to another 
of the dead until, lying with his face up- 
turned, she found the cruel sailor who had 


116 


The Widow's Web 


wrested from her her web. In his cold wet 
hands he still held the precious thing, un- 
hurt and whole. The widow took it gently 
from the resistless hands, and turned her 
thoughts to the great St. Oswin who had 
heard her prayer and had given back the treas- 
ure she had thought utterly lost. 

Don’t you think that is a wonderful story? 
You know St. Oswin was a great Saxon saint 
who performed many miracles, and did much 
for his people of Northumbria. I am sure he 
would help us nowadays, if we prayed to 
him. 


Hn Blepbant’s TRUa^s 

(^F COURSE you won’t suppose that they are 
like our ways! That is to say like peo- 
ple’s who have a conscience as you and I have. 
The story I am going to tell you you will 
find in a clever hook called “Animal Intelli- 
gence,” by Romanes. It is not a Catholic 
book and rather too difficult for you just yet; 
that is why I am telling you stories out of it. 

In a large open space called a compound, 
an elephant was chained by its leg. Its 
driver was hungry, and had to cook his own 
dinner. So he made an oven a short distance 
from the elephant, and put some rice cakes 
to bake in it. He covered them up carefully 
with stones and grass, then went away to work 
until they were done. The elephant had been 
watching the whole proceeding. But he was 
chained by the leg. This was not enough to 
stop the clever animal, however. He bent 

117 


118 An Elephant's Ways 

down and with his trunk unfastened the chain 
and lifted his foot out of it! Then he went 
to the oven, uncovered the cakes, took them 
and ate them all. Then he covered up the 
vacant spot with the grass and stones, and re- 
turned to his place. 

Now clever as he was, he could not put the 
chain back upon his foot; so would you be- 
lieve it! he twisted it round and round to look 
as if it were on and had never been taken off. 
When the driver came back he found his ele- 
phant standing with his back to the oven look- 
ing as if he could not say “Boo !” The driver, 
who suspected nothing, went straight for his 
dinner. It was gone! He looked round 
quickly and saw the elephant watching him 
over his shoulder with a twinkle in his little 
eye. The driver guessed at once who had 
taken his dinner, and he gave the elephant the 
punishment he richly deserved. 

All this performance was seen by some 
children, who were watching out of a win- 
dow which looked straight upon the com- 
pound. That was a clever animal, was it not? 


119 


An Elephant's Ways 

I daresay in your reading books you have good 
stories of elephants. Did you ever hear of 
the one that pulled up the grass round about, 
and covered its broad back with it, like thatch, 
to keep off the sun and the flies? It is well 
that they can protect themselves, for the flies 
are so vicious that they draw blood sometimes, 
even out of an elephant’s skin. So you may 
imagine what a bite they must give. 


lPe^ro IRiba&eneIra 

*j[^E WAS a very naughty boy — ^there is no 
use in trying to hush the matter up. He 
was exceedingly idle, though he had an un- 
common amount of brains. He was dread- 
fully mischievous, though he was quite old 
enough to know better. And he was dis- 
gracefully bold and impudent, though he had 
been well brought up. Relations shook their 
heads and foretold that Pedro would come to 
a bad end. His masters flogged him with 
the greatest satisfaction, but flogging seemed 
to do him no good. Pedro was worse after 
corporal punishment, and only snapped his 
Angers at those who tried to correct him. 
What was to be done with such a specimen of 
humanity? Only one man could answer that 
question. “Give him to me,” said Ignatius 
Loyola. “Pedro is naughty and trouble- 
some, but he has a heart of gold.” So Pedro 
120 


Pedro Ribadeneira 


121 


was handed over to the gentle saint and be- 
came a sort of novice under the great master. 
Do you suppose Pedro gave up his tricks? 
Not he! He plagued the old Fathers; he 
played tricks upon his long-suffering com- 
panions; he disturbed the peace of the house; 
he even imitated the limp of the saint who 
was his father and protector. Petitions 
were sent up to Ignatius for the boy’s re- 
moval. There was no suffering him any 
longer, people said. They had been patient; 
they had tried every means in their power and 
they had failed. Let him go away, then, and 
be brought to his senses, somewhere else. 
Ignatius shook his head. “He has a heart of 
gold,” was his only answer, and the trouble- 
some boy remained for the sanctification if not 
edification of the household. 

I will tell you a few things he did to show 
you what sort of a youth he was. There were 
plenty of apple-trees in the orchard near the 
house. Pedro one day went on a foraging 
expedition, climbed a tree, and filled his 
pockets with stolen fruit. Informers brought 


122 Pedro Ribadeneira 

Ignatius to the spot that he might see with 
his own eyes that their complaints had a good 
foundation. Sure enough there was Pedro 
with his bulging pockets and his guilty, hang- 
dog look. Unluckily for the boy, as he stood 
before the Father there rolled out from his 
over-crammed pocket a large red apple. It 
fell at the saint’s feet. What would he say? 
Pedro wondered. What awful penance would 
he give for so flagrant a breach of rule? 
Ignatius said nothing, nor did he even look 
up. With his stick he rolled the apple back 
to the boy’s feet and there left it. Pedro was 
really abashed this time and genuinely sorry. 
But his contrition, unhappily, did not last 
long. 

Another day Ignatius called the young 
scapegrace to him. Sad tales had been 
brought to his ear, and he scolded the boy 
roundly. But business summoned him away 
abruptly; so he told Pedro to stay there in 
his room until his return, and in the meantime 
think over all the trouble and sorrow he was 
giving him. Business followed business, and 


Pedro Ribadeneira 


123 


Ignatius forgot all about his penitent. The 
morning wore on; midday came; the boy was 
getting terribly hungry; the afternoon 
passed, and still the poor fellow waited; 
evening came, and with it the remembrance 
of Pedro to the saint. He hurriedly rose 
from table and went to his room. There, sure 
enough, was the boy — ^hungry, thirsty, weary, 
sitting on the floor from sheer fatigue. All 
was forgiven on both sides, and Pedro went 
away firmly intending to be a saint — some 
day. 

This was Pedro Ribadeneira in his youth. 
But as he grew up he repaid his saintly 
spiritual Father all his long-suffering, all his 
gentle dealings. He showed in a hundred 
ways how gold his heart really was. He 
wrote the “ Life ’’ of his holy Father, and 
when he was eighty years old would talk of 
him and his virtues with the most filial love. 
He heard that a portrait of the saint was to 
be painted. He begged that it might be done 
in his room. So the artist took his palette 
and worked at the beloved face under the old 


124 


Pedro Ribadeneira 


man’s eye and direction, whilst he repeated 
the many oft-told tales of the saint’s good- 
ness. 

There is a little girl I have heard tell of 
who intends to become a saint; but she has 
made up her mind to run through the vices 
first. It is only fair to say she does not know 
what a vice is ; she has not come to the chapter 
in the Catechism where they all stand in an 
ugly list. I think some of us might make up 
our minds to try to he a saint — that is, use 
the graces God gives us as well as we can. 
But we won’t run through the vices first. 
That is, we won’t be naughty first, hoping to 
be good some time. Some time is too vague, 
and very seldom comes. It must be to-day 
and now. That is the golden time. 


Ubc IRing ot IPol^crates 

ipOLYCRATES was king of Samos and many 
islands round. He was favored by for- 
tune in such a singular degree that his super- 
stitious friends were almost afraid to live with 
him. For they thought the favor of the gods 
could not continue forever, and a time would 
come when the goddess of fates would turn 
upon him, and have her revenge. You see 
those people were heathens. 

One day Polycrates was sitting in a balcony 
that overlooked the sea. Near him sat his 
friend, the powerful king of Egypt. The 
two were watching the ships sail in and out 
of the harbor and talking over the affairs of 
their kingdoms. The king of Samos boasted 
of his happiness, his luck in every undertak- 
ing, the wonderful success of his every enter- 
prise. The Egyptian listened with some 
alarm. “Do not boast of your luck,” he said. 

195 


126 The Ring of Polycrates 

“Your navy has not come back victorious; you 
may yet hear of a terrible reverse.” As he 
spoke a messenger came up the strand; he 
brought the tidings of the complete victory 
of the fleet. It was even then safe in the 
harbor with immense booty, he said. There 
was a glow of pride on the island king’s face 
as he turned to his friend for congratulation. 
But the Egyptian seemed more awed than 
pleased. “Beware, my king,” he said. 
“Your army is not yet out of danger. It has 
still to meet the enemy’s forces, and iniin may 
yet be yours.” As he finished his sentence 
a breathless messenger, travel-stained and 
weary, brought the news of a total defeat of 
the foe. A deeper shade of anxiety dark- 
ened the swarthy cheek of the Egyptian. 
“No mortal,” he said, “can continue long in 
such unheard-of luck. I, too, have been 
favored by the gods; but I am even with 
them; for I am now sorrowing over my only 
son and heir. Pray to the gods to send you 
some minor misfortune lest a greater over- 
take you.” The king thought for a moment. 


The Ring of Polycrates 

Then he took from his finger a gem of price- 
less worth, a ring he valued more than any 
other possession. This he threw straight into 
the sea, far away into the black waves. He 
watched it touch the water, saw the bubbles 
and the circles made by the disturbed surface; 
then peacefully turned his thoughts to other 
subjects. 

The day wore on. Toward evening a fish- 
erman came to the palace-gate; he had a gift 
for the king. A splendid fish of unusual size 
had been caught that morning, and he wished 
to present it to his sovereign. The gift was 
sent to the royal cook and was prepared for 
the evening meal. As the two royal friends 
sat down together in earnest conversation — 
the night closing in with its short twilight — 
the king of Samos was requested to give an 
audience to one of his servants. Polycrates 
ordered the man to be ushered in. With deep 
reverence, the cook came forward. In his 
hand he held the wonderful ring of Poly- 
crates. He explained that he had found it 
in the fish’s mouth, and knowing how precious 


1S8 The Ring of Polycrates 

it was to his king and master, he had ven- 
tured into the royal presence to return it to 
him. Polycrates flushed with something be- 
tween keen joy and awe. But the king of 
Egypt, his friend, rose up white and trem- 
bling. He must leave the palace at once, he 
said. Such a run of good fortune was a sure 
sign of a future terrible disaster. With 
many warning words he left the king’s side. 
Friend though he professed to be, he could not 
share trouble with his friend, but thought only 
how to secure his own safety. 

What further happened to Polycrates we 
are not told in this story. Christians would 
have advised him to take with gratitude the 
good things sent by God; and, trusting the 
future in His hands, to be ready to take the 
bad when God should think well to send it, 
and thank Him for it. 


Zhc Spantsb parrot 

*jjT WAS a beautiful bird, gorgeous with red 
and green, and with a tongue that rivaled 
any schoolgirl’s. The master of this bird was 
a sailor whose home was in no sunny climate, 
but in the north, in the Isle of Mull, off the 
Scottish coast. But if the bird had no 
warmth in the outer air it had plenty of sun 
inside. The sailor-boy’s friends loved the 
pretty parrot and taught it to speak broad 
Scotch. And it chatted and laughed and 
mocked all day long. In time this lovely par- 
rot grew old; its sight became dim, its sen- 
tences short and far between; it ate less and 
less, and at last ceased speaking altogether. 
“Poor old bird!” the people said, “it is too 
old to care for fun and laughter; it is deaf, 
probably, and certainly dumb.” 

One day there came a Spaniard to the 
sailor’s cottage. He was welcomed as an old 

129 


130 The Spanish Parrot 

friend and brought into the kitchen, where 
the old bird hung. Seeing it swaying in the 
window, the stranger spoke a few loving 
words to it in Spanish. The bird started, 
flew round the cage excitedly, gave a loud, 
long scream, then dropped dead upon the 
floor of its cage. 

Do you know that this is quite a true story? 
I think it shows how dear home is, and early 
ways and manners. The joy of hearing the 
sweet language of its birthplace was too much 
for the old parrot, and its heart broke with 
its joy. I like that bird; I like people who 
love their homes and their homely ways, who 
are not ashamed of poor relations, and who 
love those who have loved them, even though 
they may not be smart or highly educated. 
And I would like to have buried the bird 
with a great deal of pomp and put a fine 
shrub or tree — perhaps a Spanish chestnut 
— ^upon its grave; all because of that flutter 
of joy which broke its heart. 


De ©re Xeonis 

title is Latin and it means “From 
the jaw of the lion,” and the end of it is 
“Deliver us, O Lord!” And the whole of it 
is a story. 

Daniel Pinus was a little boy of noble fam- 
ily. He lived in Brussels in the sixteenth 
century, which means a long time ago. Boys 
at that time were very much what they are 
now, excepting their clothes. This boy was 
only five years old, but he liked to show off 
all the courage he had. Of course it is a very 
good thing to have courage, but it is better to 
have it and not show it off. Still, you could 
hardly expect a boy of five to know that ; very 
much older boys don’t know it. 

Daniel was out for a walk one day; his 
good mother was by his side, and they were 
very near a church dedicated to our Lady of 
Mount Carmel. They saw a huge lion com- 

131 


1S2 


De Ore Leonis 


ing toward them ; it was quite tame and a great 
pet of the people. It had been brought from 
Africa by Charles V and, because of its good 
behavior, was allowed to walk all alone 
through the streets of Brussels. 

Now it is one thing to be good when every- 
body is considerate and kind, and another 
thing to keep your temper, when people are 
unkind and trying. And if this is hard for 
men with reason, it is harder for animals with- 
out. So you won’t be surprised at what I 
am going to tell you. 

Daniel saw the grand creature stalking on- 
wards, and his blood was stirred; he thought 
what a magnificent thing it would be to fight 
the lion, and show everybody, and his mother, 
that he was not afraid of lions were they 
never so big. He grasped the stick he held 
in his hand tighter, and ran up to the lion and 
struck it a blow on the head. At once all the 
fierce spirit in the animal was roused ; it 
rushed at the child and caught him by the 
waist-band, and held him firmly up. Then it 
bounded off in an awful fury. The poor 


De Ore Leonis 


133 


mother fell upon her knees and besought our 
Lady to save her hoy, promising to conse- 
crate him to her forever. No sooner was the 
prayer said, than the lion slackened its pace, 
became calmer, and then, as if tired, dropped 
its precious burden. 

Daniel Pinus grew up a sensible man; he 
fulfilled his mother’s vow, and consecrated 
himself to the service of our Lady of Mount 
Carmel, who had so lovingly saved him when 
he was a thoughtless boy. His parents gave 
a beautiful painting to the church, of our 
Lady of Carmel, underneath which was 
carved the inscription: ore leonis^ libera 

noSj Dominer 


TLbc IReC) X^brea^ 


•jjx WAS the year 1843. Have you got up to 
there in your English history? England 
was at war with the Baluchis of Sind. Sir 
Charles Napier was the general in command, 
and he fought and won though the enemy had 
an army double, treble the size of our own. 
But it is not of victory I am thinking just 
now, hut of defeat, the defeat of eleven 
British men, soldiers who had fought, and 
lost, and died. When the commander-in- 
chief was making his brilliant march across 
the burning sands which divide Sind from 
British territory, these eleven, having mis- 
taken an order, had detached themselves from 
the main army and had charged a breastwork 
manned with a terrible number of swarthy 
foes. The English sergeant had given the 
word to ascend the hill, and followed by his 
men he had made a desperate attack. But 

134 


The Red Thread 


135 


the odds were against him; the numbers were 
too uneven. One by one the eleven gallant 
soldiers fell before the flashing scimitars of 
the hill-men. 

Night came; the moon shone upon the 
slopes. Out of the darkness stealthy figures 
emerged, men coming to bury their dead. 
They were the brave Baluchis about to honor 
the slain. The chief stood among the corpses, 
and counted the bodies strewn around. 
Eleven Englishmen, but at least treble the 
number of his own tribe. The chief looked 
stern and thoughtful. His men had been 
brave, but could they compare to these whites? 
Turning to the silent band he said: “When 
a brave man dies in battle we tie round his 
wrist a green thread; when a hero dies we tie 
a red one. Which do these warriors deserve, 
the green or the red?” A shout went up, 
“The red, the red!” Still the chief pondered. 
These English had obeyed an order that meant 
death; they had risked everything for honor 
and loyalty. Would their own bravest chiefs 
have been so grandly blind? He spoke his 


186 


The Red Thread 


thoughts to the wondering men about. Once 
more there went up a shout: ‘‘Bind the red 
thread upon both their wrists.” 

Before dawn the next day Napier’s band 
came to bury their dead. Stretched upon the 
sloping ground lay the eleven slain; upon 
their wrists the thin red thread that pro- 
claimed each man a hero. 

Don’t we admire these brave men? and 
don’t we want to be brave, with true moral 
courage as well as physical, which means in 
spiritual danger as well as bodily? And don’t 
you admire the hill-men? The foe was con- 
quered; they had wrought much havoc; they 
had fallen in fair fight. Yet the savage 
horde felt that they had done grandly: they 
had dared, and they had obeyed; and they 
honored them — enemies though they were — 
with a double mark of honor, the highest in 
their power to give. That is generosity, and 
generosity is a beautiful thing. 


H Mere an& a Wecolne 


5H" WAS a peasant and his name was Bar- 
laam, and he lived in the time of the tenth 
persecution — that is, more than seven hundred 
years ago. He was rustic in manner and in 
speech, so much so that people laughed at him 
when they brought him to the bar to be tried. 
But the peasant was too much for them. 
They scourged him, they racked him, they ter- 
rified him with axes and swords stained with 
blood; but Barlaam stood unmoved, joyous, 
full of courage, ready to endure any torture. 
His persecutors were angry and bethought 
them of a way to overcome the saint’s reso- 
lution. They brought an altar ready for sac- 
rifice, with the coals burning brightly. One 
of the executioners took the man’s outstretched 
hand and held it over the flames. Upon it he 
put live coals and incense. If Barlaam moved 
under the torture the incense would fall, and 

137 


138 A Hero and a Heroine 

then they determined to shout victory. He 
would have sacrificed to the false gods, they 
said. So Barlaam, for fear of the least 
shadow of scandal, held out his hand and let it 
he burned through without a movement. 
Then it dropped, and fell into the flames with 
the incense. There was a shout, but not for 
victory or for the idols. The God of the 
Christians had won, and the victory was due 
to the peasant Barlaam. 

That was seven hundred years ago. Listen 
to what happened a short time since. In a 
laundry kept by some good Religious for chil- 
dren of an industrial school there was a girl 
who had been very tiresome. For a punish- 
ment she was kept in, and ordered to do the 
work she had neglected. Now, instead of do- 
ing as she was told and getting over her pun- 
ishment as quickly as she could, this silly little 
thing gave way to her temper and rushed 
about the laundry in a passion. She ended by 
dancing round the boiler, which was put in a 
safe position out of the reach of danger. 


A Hero and a Heroine 139 

Some of the big girls told her to come down, 
reminding her that she was on forbidden 
ground. Now, Mary was far too cross to be 
obedient; she continued her dance and slid. 
The ground was slippery from soap-suds; she 
lost her balance and fell into the boiler! She 
was rescued at once, but she was terribly 
scalded and had received so dreadful a shock 
that the doctor saw she could not live many 
hours. The poor child was in awful pain. 
Her flesh was one wound, too bad to be dressed. 
The doctor wanted to give her morphia so as 
to deaden the pain. This medicine makes one 
unconscious and takes away the sense of feel- 
ing. Mary was made to understand what was 
going to be done for her; but, to the astonish- 
ment of every one, she refused to take the mor- 
phia, and when she was asked why, she an- 
swered because she wanted to say “Hail 
Marys,” and she could not if she were uncon- 
scious! When her confessor came she told 
him in gasps that she had been very naughty, 
but that she was truly sorry. 

Do you see why I call Mary a heroine? You 


140 A Hero and a Heroine 

will have to think over the story a little, per- 
haps, before you see how brave the child was. 
A burn is a dreadful thing; it pains like no 
other pain; it eats into the flesh and renders 
our senses sick with agony. Still Mary could 
bear this flery pain rather than lose conscious- 
ness and be incapable of saying her prayers. 
And she was only a little child, without much 
training, and with a great many faults! 
Don’t you think there was something of the 
martyr spirit in her? I do, and I feel very 
cowardly by her side. 


XTbe Cbangeling 

upon a time a long time ago, I had a 
doll.” (The I isn’t me, though I had a 
doll once, and loved it.) ‘Tt was a doll from 
Paris, a perfect beauty. Its hair was what 
is called real; its eyes were blue, with expres- 
sion; its mouth was ripe cherry; its feet and 
hands soft and dimpled. This is how it had 
come into my possession, a simple way. I cried 
for a doll and I got one. I was tired of all 
my dolls; they had lost their first beauty; one 
was eyeless; one had knocked its nose so often 
that it had none left to knock. Several were 
limbless, or partially crippled. So I longed 
for a doll and this splendid creature from 
Paris was given to me. It could open and 
shut its eyes ; it could stand alone ; it could walk 
and say ‘Mama.’ That is to say, if you 
squeezed it tight, and long enough it articu- 
lated something which you might interpret as 

141 


The Changeling 

‘Mama/ if you very much wanted to. Even 
I thought there was something a little peculiar 
about the sound. But my nurse said, ‘Why of 
course there is; it’s the French accent!’ Then 
I understood, and was very happy. 

“But, oh, for the sorrows of childhood! By 
some ugly mistake my fine doll got its arm 
broken. I had not done the deed; but when 
my mother asked me where ‘Lizzy’ was, I 
stammered and stuttered like a guilty thing; 
and at last said, ‘In bed, mother; it’s asleep.’ 
It certainly was in bed ; but I had put it there 
to consider further what could be done. 

“One morning I went out alone into the busy 
streets. I wanted to find a shop where I could 
get my doll mended. I asked over and over 
again. I got the same answer, and the same 
admiration for my doll. At last one smiling 
shopkeeper took it from my arms and ex- 
amined it. ‘This is a rare beauty,’ he said. 
Then he paused and with a cunning look in 
his eyes said, ‘Leave it with me for two days, 
little one, and I will set it all right for you.’ 
I was pleased but two days seemed endless 


143 


The Changeling 

waiting. With a sob I asked if I might not 
come back the day after to-morrow. He said 
I might. Very cautiously I slipped back 
home, only too glad that my absence had not 
been discovered. The two days passed and 
I came back to the shop; the man received 
me with a smile and put into my trembling 
hands a parcel of shining white paper. 
'There,’ he said, 'little Missy, is your beautiful 
doll; its arm is perfectly well and it is quite 
sound again.’ Then I thought of the pay. 
What would it cost? Alas! I only had six- 
pence; would that be enough? I fumbled 
long before I could find the precious 
coin. At last it came out of my pocket with 
a bit of red ribbon. I asked timidly what 
the cost was, and held out the sixpence. 
Again the man laughed. 'Ah, I don’t charge 
anything for mending such beautiful dolls as 
that,’ he said. 'And here is a present for the 
good little girl herself.’ He handed me a box 
of sweets. I took them eagerly, and thanked 
the man politely. 

"When I got into the road I wondered what- 


144 The Changeling 

ever I could do with the sweets. I couldn’t 
explain to mother, nor to nurse. There was 
only one possible way; I must eat all the 
sweets immediately. They were rather a lot, 
it is true. But they looked very good. So I 
stuffed my little mouth full. The first ones 
were delicious ; after a while the taste was not 
so good. Toward the end of the box I quite 
disliked them — bright yellow, green, and red 
things though they were. 

“With some caution I was able to slip into 
the garden unperceived again. Nurse met 
me, and asked wherever I could have been hid- 
ing, she had looked for me everywhere. I felt 
ill, and turned a very white face to her. She 
was shocked, and carried me off up to my 
room. And not a minute too soon. I was so 
ill that for the first time in my healthy life 
the doctor was sent for. He was my uncle, 
and an old man. He sat down by the bed and 
told me to put out my tongue. I was 
astonished. I had never done such a rude 
thing in my life. But when he persisted, I 
had to give in, and I was so ashamed after- 


The Changeling 145 

wards that I hid my face under the bedclothes. 
When my mother was out of the room, and 
the nurse also, he asked me how many sweets 
I had eaten. I looked into his face and said: 
‘A whole box full!’ ‘Oh, my eye!’ he an- 
swered. ‘Now I understand the case.’ But 
he didn’t tell my mother, which was very good 
of him. When I got better I looked at my 
doll more calmly. And would you believe it, 
she was quite altered. She could not stand by 
herself. She could not walk; she could not 
say ‘Mama,’ even though I squeezed her tight. 
Her hair was stringy and her color artificial. 
Her eyes stared, and there was no expression 
in them. I showed her to nurse ; she examined 
it closely and sighed ; she said it must have been 
ill, too. After that I didn’t like my Paris doll 
a bit. An estrangement had come between us 
that I couldn’t understand then. I am afraid 
I do now, because I am not a child.” 

Again I say: Don’t think that person is 
me. She isn’t. Writers do write about them- 
selves sometimes, and I think it is rather in- 


146 The Changeling 

teresting. But I haven’t come to that yet, 
though I may do so some day if I am very 
hard up. 


H iFiabt anb a IDtctor^ 


January 2, 1683, was a memorable day 
in Europe. Early in the morning, if 
you had been walking in Adrianople, a city 
already in the hands of the Turks, you 
would have been amused and puzzled by 
the sight of a number of horsetails dec- 
orating the outside of the seraglio, the palace 
of the Grand Vizier, Cara Mustapha. But 
it was no joke; those swinging horse- 
tails were an awful portent. The innocent, 
ridiculous-looking ornaments were signals of 
war, and the whole city knew that the cry of 
“To Arms!” must follow. And follow it did. 
When day broke, the preparations began. 
The whole Ottoman Empire was put into mo- 
tion; Fire and sword were to be carried into 
the German Empire. The cross was to fall 
before the crescent, and Cara Mustapha was to 
be the leader of the forces. He was a great 

147 


148 A Fight and a Victory 

leader; he had enormous troops in his com- 
mand ; there was .a traitor in the enemy’s camp 
ready with 40,000 men to walk over to his side. 
Nothing could have looked more promising for 
the invading army. Who could resist such 
numbers, such ferocity and astuteness, with 
disaffection in the very heart of the empire! 

Onward came the marching army ; they 
traversed the whole of Hungary, swarmed on 
either side of the Danube and besieged Vienna. 
The Emperor was in the town. He fled when 
the news of the approach came; with his wife 
and family he went from one fortified town 
to another and left the defense of his capital 
and his country to his generals. Happily a 
man of undaunted courage and loyalty was the 
governor. Count Staremberg, a good soldier 
and an experienced general. He held out 
against the overwhelming foe and kept up his 
men’s courage with his own cheerful con- 
stancy. 

Just try to imagine a camp of 150,000 men, 
Turks, infidels, half savages around Vienna! 
The men were at work night and day cutting 


149 


A Fight and a Victory 

trenches, throwing up mounds. But the mag- 
nificence of the camp would have to be seen 
to be properly pictured. The tents shone with 
silk and embroidery ; the standards were splen- 
did in color and design, and blazed with jewels. 
The riches of the interior were a proverb. 
Tekeli, the deserter, was at Buda with a force 
of 40,000 men, ready to come to his new 
master’s aid if such an unlikely thing as as- 
sistance should be required. Meanwhile, the 
inhabitants of Vienna prayed and held out. 
The Duke of Lorraine was known to be at 
hand, and he came up to the scene of action; 
but found relief impossible in the face of such 
a force. The Elector of Saxony joined with 
10,000 men; still even these numbers made no 
impression upon the swarming Turks. At last 
came the hero of the times, a man called 
Sobieski. He was king of Poland; he had 
been successful against the Turks, and had 
made the name of Pole a terror even to the 
savages. He had 24,000 men under him, and 
he came marching gallantly toward the be- 
sieged town. He had come up with the Duke 


150 


A Fight and a Victory 

of Lorraine at the head of his troops, and both 
together made for the capital. 

Now these two friends were not warriors 
only; they were good and devout men. Let 
us see how they prepared for the terrible time 
before them. John Sobieski had Mass said in 
his tent; all his army was in attendance, join- 
ing in the holy action as well as they could. 
The king himself served Mass ; when his hands 
were not required, he spread them out in the 
form of a cross and prayed. He received Holy 
Communion with great numbers of his follow- 
ers, and when his prayers were over he made 
them a short speech in which these memorable 
words occurred. “Let us now march to the 
enemy with an entire confidence in the pro- 
tection of Heaven, and under the assured pat- 
ronage of the Blessed Virgin.” 

The great Cara Mustapha was very dif- 
ferently employed. He was full of confi- 
dence in his numbers, in his generalship, and 
perhaps in his good fortune. Any way, he 
stayed in his luxurious tent sipping cofF ee with 
his two sons and the Cham of Tartary. He 


151 


A Fight and a Victory 

was told of the forces that had joined ranks, 
of the signal given for battle. Still he stayed 
on. He was surrounded with an invincible 
body-guard and he relied upon that. What 
did he care for the puny armies of the Chris- 
tians? His troops were chased from hill to 
hill; still he watched the onslaught with im- 
concern; the time had not come for him to 
strike, he seemed to think. But he had un- 
derrated his opponent. When at last he saw 
the redoubtable Sobieski in person, a sudden 
panic seized Mustapha. Without striking a 
blow, he fled ; unreasoning fear spread through 
his vast army; they gathered up their arms 
and fled helpless, leaving behind them an ex- 
traordinary booty. Cara, the Vizier, left all 
his effects to Sobieski, and this great general 
made a distribution of the treasures found. 
The great standard was discovered in Cara’s 
tent. It was embroidered in gold and rich 
silk, and was decorated with Arabic sentences. 
This huge trophy was hung up in the great 
church of Vienna. The Mahometan standard 
was sent to the Pope, Innocent XI. All the 


152 


A Fight and a Victory 

artillery was left behind, one hundred and 
eighty cannon. Of the Christians not more 
than six hundred were killed. 

How do you think Sobieski took this victory? 
Of course you will easily believe he was not 
proud, for it is not the great heroes who are 
vain and proud; it is only people with smaller 
brains and courage. But the king of Poland 
gave the credit of the victory not to himself 
but to Almighty God; he had asked the pro- 
tection of Heaven and he had been most won- 
derfully aided, and when all was over his first 
thoughts were to give thanks. He entered 
Vienna and went straight to the church. A 
grand Te Deum was sung, and the victor stood 
joining in the glad words, singing joyfully 
the praises of God. But there was another to 
whom the king gave thanks. That was his 
Blessed Mother, the Queen of Heaven. In 
thanksgiving for this day the beautiful feast 
of Our Lady’s Holy Name was instituted; 
it is kept in the octave of Our Lady’s birth- 
day, So when you see on your calendars the 
feast of the Holy Name of Mary, remember 


153 


A Fight and a Victory 

that it is to give thanks for this great victory 
over a fearful enemy, who otherwise would 
have overrun Europe and ruined religion. 


Xona, %onQ Hao 


2)iD you ever hear this story? I will tell you 
and then you will see. 

There was a man and his wife who lived 
about one thousand one hundred years ago 
on the shores of the Mediterranean Sea. 
They were very poor and their house was a 
little turned-over boat made into a hut, with 
just room enough to turn round and breathe 
in. Of course no one could call these hand- 
some quarters, but they were good enough, and 
the pair would have been happy enough, if — 
this was a big if — ^the wife had not had such 
a bad temper. But she had a very bad 
temper. She could fly into a passion in a 
dreadful manner, and frighten her husband 
for nothing at all. 

One day the husband was lying on the sea- 
shore, grieving over his trouble, when he fell 
asleep and he dreamed that a little fairy came 

154 


155 


LiOng, Long Ago 

and pitied him. And she promised to grant 
him six wishes to make things happier for 
him. He was to come to the shore, say some 
cabalistic words and express his wish; and then 
it would be granted to him. lago, when he 
awoke, felt quite light-hearted, and thought 
things would have to be very bad indeed, if 
with six wishes, he could not set them right for 
himself and Beryl his wife. That very day 
Beryl could not find something, so she flew 
into a passion and wished to goodness the house 
was not a miserable hut but a decent-sized 
house like the one on the hill, with proper 
walls and not a boat’s ribs, and stairs to go 
up, and a second story. No sooner had she 
said the word than her husband told her he 
would go to the good fairy on the beach, and 
ask for the house and all belonging to it. 
His wife told him not to stand there wasting 
words, but to go and do so at once. OflP he 
went to the sea, said his cabalistic words, and 
returned quick to see whether the wish had 
been fulfilled. Lo! There was his wife 
looking radiant on the doorstep of a fine house, 


156 


Long, Long Ago 

which stood in a neat little garden of its own. 
They took their midday meal together and 
were just settling down to a comfortable chat, 
when there was a knock, and a strong-looking 
man came in, and said that the master of the 
house was wanted to do some work for his 
overlord and he must come at once. You 
must remember that it was one thousand one 
hundred years ago, when there was the feudal 
system everywhere, as you have learned in your 
history. Xo sooner had the man said his say 
when the wife flew into one of her terrible 
passions, and stormed and rated every one. 
Was there no peace to be had in the world, she 
said. No sooner had they a nice bit of land 
and a roof over their heads, than some one 
must come and disturb them. Would that 
she were overlord! lago jumped up as if to 
do the man’s bidding, but in truth to go down 
to the beach to his kind little fairy. He would 
ask that his wife might be the overlord her- 
self, and then she would be satisfled and there 
would be peace again. So he said his cabalistic 
words and he asked the boon, and as usual it 


157 


Long, Long Ago 

was granted. He rushed back to the house 
and saw the fine castle of the overlord, stand- 
ing just where the quiet white house had stood, 
and the humble boat-hut. His wife, too, was 
overlord — she commanded and ordered every 
one about, and was supremely happy. And 
for some days there was no temper; all was 
bright sunshine in and around the castle. 

But one day there came a messenger from 
the king — the overlord was to betake himself 
at once to court; there was to be a council of 
war and none must be absent. Such a storm 
as now broke out. The wife was white with 
anger. Not even as a superior rank could she 
be at peace, she said. Why, oh, why, could she 
not be king! At these words the patient hus- 
band slipped out of the back door to the sea- 
side, and told the kind little fairy of his wish. 
His wife must be king, and then they might at 
last hope to be happy again; nothing short 
of regal power would suffice for so masterful 
a woman. The fairy sighed; she would grant 
the wish, but she knew too well that no peace 
would come even with royalty. When lago 


158 


Long^ Long Ago 

got home he found his wife in royal robes, in 
a splendid palace, with a large retinue of 
servants, courtiers, and retainers; with many 
flatterers ready to say soft things. All went 
well for a few hours, and there was a golden 
sunshine over all. But a rider in hot haste 
was seen coming down the fine avenue of 
beech. He was riding post haste; foam 
flecked the straining head of his horse. He 
reined his animal at the stone steps leading to 
the principal hall, and then summoned atten- 
dance with bugle sound. Soon his message 
was taken to the sovereign. The emperor de- 
sired the presence of his royal highness at court 
immediately. Secret and urgent business de- 
manded prompt attention. A terrible fit of 
rage seized Beryl, the wife. How! not even 
as king was there peace to be had on this mis- 
erable earth. She would she were emperor; 
then at least nothing could come to annoy her 
soul. 

lago heard with a white face. And again 
he made his way to the shore. His wife should 
never say he had not done all in his power 


159 


Long, Long Ago 

to get her peace of soul. Once more he said 
his cabalistic words, and once again the wish 
was granted. When he came back Beryl was 
in a purple cope-like garment, with a stately 
body-guard surrounding her on all sides, with 
an army ready to do her bidding at a nod. 
Her face was radiant; not a shadow was upon 
her. She was happy. But only a few minutes 
of serenity passed, and then there came like 
a rushing wind a papal envoy with the news 
that all, from the highest to the lowest, should 
join in the Crusade and go to the Holy Land 
and rescue the holy places from the hands of 
the infidels. The new emperor raged! Was 
it for this she had assumed the purple! to go 
out like a common trooper and fight whether 
she wanted to or not! lago crept away. 
There was nothing but another wish to satisfy 
her, and calm her temper. She must be Pope 
according to her desire. The cabalistic words 
were said for the fifth time and the wish was 
again granted. The new Pope walked 
leisurely through his grand gardens; his white 
robes fiuttered in the breeze; people knelt for 


160 


Long, Long Ago 

his blessing; he gave it with a calm smile. 
There was peace in his heart. 

But the sun grew hot ; the breeze died down ; 
a sultry dryness spread over the plain. The 
new Pope could not breathe; he became im- 
patient ; the heat increased ; he flew into a pas- 
sion. Why ! here was a pretty state of things ! 
Heat fit to stifle a body! and nothing to re- 
lieve one ! What use was there in being Pope ! 
he was no better off than any other man. He 
would he were God and able to control the 
atmosphere ! At these words there came a ter- 
rible clap of thunder! Lightning flashed! 
The earth seemed to tremble. . . . When 

lago rose from the ground where he had fallen 
in his fright, he found himself with his wife 
in the little boat-hut by the seashore, in his 
work-a-day garments and a smile of astonish- 
ment on his homely face. 

Can you find a moral, children dear? I 
won’t find it for you! 


lPti3e iflowers: H Urue Stor^ 

^OME contemplative nuns had settled down 
in a part of Ireland where there was much 
good soil — fine land, but no one to work it. 
The Bishop of the diocese therefore begged 
these nuns to pray less and work more, to call 
around them the women and children of the 
country and teach them the three R’s and 
thrifty habits. So the nuns, as obedient as 
they were holy, rose earlier to say all their 
prayers; and then set to work to do his Lord- 
ship’s bidding. They organized classes to 
teach the little ones spelling, and reading, and 
writing; the older girls were taught to cut 
out, to sew, and to make lace. The married 
women learned to cook and keep their houses 
clean. 

But one young Sister was not satisfied with 
dinning the alphabet into her scholars’ heads; 

she wanted to make them love nature and its 
161 


16 ^ 


Prize Flowers 


God. To show her young charges how to 
grow flowers in their little front gardens, how 
to dig up the sour earth and make it fragrant 
with air and toil — this was her ambition. 
And the children were apt learners. They 
watched the brown earth yield under the strong 
young hand, they saw the seeds dropped into 
the dark hollows; they saw the measurements 
made, and the dark places lightly covered 
over. Then they watched daily for the first 
green shoots and greeted their coming with 
a yell of joy. Then there was the soot to be 
dusted over the tender plants ; there was cotton 
to be stretched across the seedlings. Nothing 
was too much trouble; the children did all 
that the Sister told them ; and they were bribed 
to keep their fingers off the roots. But when 
the flowers came up, stately and tall — sweet 
pea, clarkia, mignonette, and poppies — there 
was but one cry: “Give us seeds. Sister! 
We want to sow our own flowers and pick 
them for ourselves.” And with great joy, 
when sowing time came, seeds were measured 
out into each little palm, and the children went 


Prize Flowers 163 

away with anticipations of rows of shining 
blossoms. 

The last to hold out her hand was a delicate 
child of ten, tall and slight, with large dark- 
blue eyes and delicately-veined forehead. She 
was carelessly, rather than badly, dressed, but 
there was sorrow written on her young face, 
and disease in the brightness of her beautiful 
eyes. 

“Ah, Biddy! and do you want to grow the 
flowers, too?” said the Sister in a surprised 
tone. “How can you dig in the earth with 
those thin arms?” 

“Sister, don’t be teasing,” said the child. “I 
can work with the best of them. Didn’t I see 
how you put your foot on the shoulder of the 
spade, and balanced yourself on its edge? 
And then didn’t it go down with a bang as 
nearly sent you otF?” 

“It’s the observing child you are, at any rate, 
Biddy; here’s for you, any way.” And the 
Sister dusted into the child’s hand the last and 
biggest packet of mignonette and sweet pea. 
Biddy thanked her with such joy that the good 


164 Prize Flowers 

Sister turned away consoled for the day’s hard 
work. 

As Biddy approached her own cot her step 
lost its elasticity; she arranged her treasure in 
neat paper parcels, but she was not thinking 
of them; she was thinking of the slovenly, 
heartless mother, and the poor father, who, as 
often as not, was lying at home none too sober, 
or out fighting with neighbors in the same con- 
dition as himself. How could she tell such 
parents of her little project, and all it meant 
to her? For the convent children were to 
sow the seeds, care for them, and then ex- 
hibit them at a fiower show in the nun’s garden. 
And there were to be prizes! The prospect 
was delightful, and many a child’s heart 
throbbed with expectation. Most longing of 
all, perhaps, was little Biddy. She had so few 
joys. Her father loved her and, when he was 
himself, his delight was to be with her. But 
then, how seldom that was, and how hard the 
between-times were 1 Biddy went home, 
through the house, into the back garden. 
There was plenty of site, so to speak — a reg- 


Prize Flowers 


165 


ular rubbish heap — pots and pans, bits of 
sacking, shreds of carpet, paper, vegetables, 
and potato-parings — an unsavouiy and un- 
sightly heap. Poor Biddy stood before it all, 
with her hands behind her back. Flowers 
seemed very far off. A footstep sounded on 
the path, but the child did not hear. She felt 
a hand on her shoulder, and her father looked 
down into her face. He was a tall dark man, 
lithe and young, but his eye was unsteady and 
it was bloodshot. His lip trembled and his 
words were too flowing. 

“Biddy, darling, what is it you’re looking so 
wistful for? Is it fascinated you are with the 
variety set before you?” 

“Daddy, I want to grow flowers here in this 
very place. I want you to give me this beauti- 
ful piece of ground to do just as I like with. 
Daddy, will you?” Byrne asked some ques- 
tions ; then he gave the child the bit of garden. 
But who was to clear away? “Biddy, who’s 
going to get rid of all this muck for you?” 
With a sort of inspiration the child answered, 
“You, Daddy, to be sure!” “And so I will. 


166 


Prize Flowers 


my girl, and here goes !” And Byrne took an 
armful of sundries and shoved them into an old 
pail, and set off with them to the nearest waste 
ground in the village. And he never stopped 
from the work until every stray article was 
cleared away. From that day things went 
with a swing. Byrne dug and trenched and 
watered. And Biddy watched and praised 
and laughed with joy. But the little face was 
growing more pinched ; the hands were thinner, 
the eyes larger. Neglect had sown seeds that 
were bearing fatal fruit, and joy came too late 
for an antidote. But the child herself felt 
nothing of her illness. She was happier than 
ever before in her life. Sometimes the mother 
would come and stand by the fence and com- 
mend the proceedings ; then she would go into 
her own domain and tidy up there a little more 
efficiently, and cook the food with more care. 
She was glad that her Bill was more sober, that 
he was interested, and that Biddy sang as 
she went about the house. Best of all, the 
flowers grew. The sweet pea sticks were 
netted with closely-twining plants, the mig- 


Prize Flowers 


16 T 


nonette perfumed the whole back of the house, 
and the bright green of the sweet pea was a 
glory in itself. Summer came with its sun 
and its showers, and the peas were ready for 
gathering. What a trembling hand the child 
stretched out towards the rich blossoms! But 
it was the father who cut them and laid them 
on her arm: Biddy was sitting, flushed and 
breathless in an easy chair ; her eyes were glow- 
ing and she spoke quickly, almost incoherently. 

“Now, my darling, get on your best hat and 
pinny, and I’ll come with you myself. For I 
must be there when they hand you the grand 
prize; sure we produced the flowers together, 
didn’t we, my lamb?” The child put out her 
arm and drew the dark face near her own. 
The eye was clear and shining to-day; the 
thickness of speech had disappeared. Bill 
was a different man. Together the two went 
down the street toward the convent. The 
child clung very close, and the arm that was 
round her bore most of the burden. 

That evening a bright-eyed child sat in her 
father’s lap looking at the most beautiful pic- 


168 


Prize Flowers 


ture book you could ever see. In the front 
page there was a flourishing inscription, which 
said that the book was awarded for flowers 
sown and cultivated by Biddy Byrne. And 
a very inexperienced hand had added, “and 
Daddy.” 

When spring came round again there was 
more than one plot of ground for Byrne to 
cultivate; there was a little mound in the 
cemetery, where the lover of flowers lay. 
Hers was a short life, but she had lived for 
a purpose. She had saved her father from 
ruin of body and soul. 


H Ikinb of picnic 


l^ou know how I like the “Annals of the 
Faith”! I was reading this morning all 
about the mission of Athabaska. I took out 
the map of Canada and found the towns and 
rivers and lakes marked on it. The “St. 
Henry Mission” is not marked in my map be- 
cause it is not much of a map. 

St. Henry has had splendid missioners and 
rare adventures. Just listen to this one. It 
comes in the June number of the “Annals of 
the Propagation of the Faith”; that is the 
whole title of the pamphlet. I am going to 
tell it to you briefly, because I have not much 
space, and because it would be better for you 
to read it in the “Annals” for yourselves. 

This adventure began like a splendid picnic 
on a large scale; but it ended very nearly in 
death and staiwation. A priest called Father 
Husson was sent up Peace River to Atha- 
baska. It was some years ago, when there 

169 


170 


A Kind of Picnic 


were not so many means of getting about as 
there are now. Indeed, you could then only go 
by canoe in summer and by sledge in winter. 
Father Husson reached the Station quite 
easily, saw his Bishop, and made all arrange- 
ments to return. He hired a canoe and a staff 
of Indians to row it, and he stocked it with 
provisions for a whole year! For he had more 
than three hundred miles to travel, and he was 
liable to meet with any amount of perils be- 
tween the two ends of his journey. 

The weather and wind were splendid, and 
the boat flew over the shining surface of the 
river. In four days the party had made half 
their distance and were elated and happy. 

One evening they all sat around the wood 
Are, picking the bones of a buzzard they had 
cooked for supper. The evening sun sparkled 
in the water; scarcely a leaf stirred. Pres- 
ently a cry of horror rose from one of the men. 
All stared at him to see what was the matter. 
He was shading his eyes and looking towards 
the river and pointing with one trembling 
finger. In a moment all understood what had 


171 


A Kind of Picnic 

happened. The canoe — ^with all provisions on 
hoard — had been carried away by the current. 
Think what that meant! One hundred and 
fifty miles away from the nearest station, with- 
out food enough for one meal; desolation all 
around, a trackless untrodden waste with no 
conveyance. The poor wayfarers had not 
even decent boots, only thin moccasins, made 
by the natives, and unfit for more than twenty- 
four hours’ walking. How had it all come 
about? The Indians had only forgotten to 
moor the boat! Only by an act of careless- 
ness, a moment’s forgetfulness, and yet with 
such dreadful consequences! Must it not have 
been hard for the Father to keep patience with 
such a prospect before him? And might he 
not have been excused if he had rated his serv- 
ants soundly? But not a word did he say. 
He was too good. Besides, there was no use 
in wasting time and energy and grace in scold- 
ing. He commended the trouble to God his 
Father, and gave the signal for an immediate 
start. 

But the poor lay-brother, his companion, was 


172 A Kind of Picnic 

a weakly man, and his heart misgave him. 
His trouble was not for himself but for his 
companions. He came up to his superior and 
whispered in his ear: “Dear Father, you 
know I am a bad walker; I shall soon fail; I 
beg, then, in the name of all that you hold most 
dear, that when you see me failing, give me 
absolution at once, and save yourself without 
troubling about me. I shall die in peace.” 
Father Husson only smiled reassuringly. 

They started; and then was every man put 
to the test. They had to walk far and long 
and to fast all the time. The undisciplined 
Indians broke out into curses, and refused to 
cut wood or take their share of the burden. 
The priest and his lay-brother did all, whilst 
the guides grumbled and mocked. It would 
take too long to say all that happened. There 
were fearful storms; mosquito swarms; there 
were dense forests and deep waters to be 
crossed; there were precipices to be skirted, 
rocks to be climbed, and hunger and thirst 
all the time. Day by day they marched; night 
after night they slept, starting heavily. 


A Kind of Picnic 


173 


On the third morning they luckily struck on 
a hunter’s trail, and with renewed courage fol- 
lowed it up, hoping to come upon a little set- 
tlement where they could at least break their 
fast. They reached the camp, and there were 
men in it, but they themselves were in a pitiable 
state. They had had no proper meal for 
eight days. Nevertheless, two strong fellows 
rowed the travelers over the river to a short 
track they pointed out, which would bring 
them more easily to their destination. 

The next day the men approached a collec- 
tion of huts, breathless with hope. It be- 
longed to the Hudson Bay Company, men 
proverbially noted for their hospitality. The 
chief officer came out and looked at the hag- 
gard, miserable, limp creatures before him. 
He received them as kindly as he could, but told 
them they would have to push on in the morn- 
ing, for he and his people were almost without 
provisions. He shared his scanty food with 
the strangers. What do you think it was? 
Thin slices of meat with thick mold upon it. 
This the poor starving creatures devoured 


174 


A Kind of Picnic 


ravenously, and then sank down to rest. The 
next day all set out once more, except the lay- 
brother. He was too weak to stir, and the 
compassionate officer let him rest with his 
camp until his own people could fetch him. 

Could you imagine the joy of that un- 
fortunate little company, when far away in 
the distance, miles and miles away yet, but 
visible, they saw the cross of the mission, stand- 
ing boldly out upon the sky? They were too 
weak to hurry, too weak to cheer, but the sight 
just gave them hope enough to stumble home. 

What a welcome they got! The whole vil- 
lage came out to meet them ; strong arms lifted 
them into bed, and from every fire there went 
up the smoke of some holocaust offered for 
the needy travelers’ refreshment. They had 
marched for six days with only one scanty 
meal of moldy meat, and with hardly a cover- 
ing to their feet. 

Father Husson said his first Mass in thanks- 
giving for the rescue of himself and his little 
party. But missionary work is not all the 
time like that, you know. 


H 3Bal)^s=morf?er 

'^wo little beings used to come down a cer- 
tain High Street in a town which we will 
call Summerville, Ella was nearly six ; Berry 
was nearly eight. They were not aristocrats, 
and their profession was not aristocratic. 
They used to go up and down the road with 
an old go-cart, a scraper, and a brush. With 
these things they collected manure from the 
highways and streets. At the end of the day 
they sold it, for a few pence to cottage gar- 
deners. 

You should have seen the pair. Ella was a 
tiny child with sharp, black, restless eyes, a 
thin, pointed face and an energetic manner 
that was painfully comical. Berry was a 
good-natured little idler, who was only kept 
at work by his sister’s untiring zeal and pluck. 
He loved a skirmish with a boy of his own 
size, and would dance to an organ-grinder’s 

175 


176 


A Baby -Worker 

tune or ride on a dust-cart, or trip up a school 
friend with equal enjoyment. But he loved 
his little sister and was for the most part a 
faithful partner in the trade. 

Once there was nearly a row between the 
little pair. Berry had run after a Punch and 
Judy show, and left the cart in the middle of 
the road, where it was upset and all its pre- 
cious contents spilled. Ella stood, and waited 
until the truant came back, then she adminis- 
tered a small box on the ear. Berry was 
staggered, and for a moment looked inclined 
to repay the blow with interest and in kind. 
But his good nature got the better of him, and 
he took up the handles of the cart, ladled 
back the dispersed load, and trudged sulkily 
along. 

Months passed, and daily the brothei’ and 
sister made their rounds, precisely at the same 
time, and in precisely the same manner. But 
one week came and no go-cart was seen on the 
road, no little workers with the shovel and 
brush. Days passed and still the job was not 
taken up again. 


177 


A Baby -Worker 

Because Ella was dead ! One day she came 
to her poor little home with a bad cough and 
fearful pain in her side. She lingered for ten 
days; her mother was devoted; the doctor kind. 
He came often and did his best to save the 
poor baby, but there was no strength left in 
the early- worn frame; sorrow and hard-living 
had done their work. Art could not undo such 
deep-rooted evil. And little Ella Smith died. 
The poor mother was broken-hearted. Such a 
clever, helpful, little being had never lived 
before. She could read and write better than 
her older brother; she had earned a wage be- 
fore she was five; she could run errands, pick 
flock, nurse babies but little younger than her- 
self. When her last sickness seized her she 
still ruled the household from her bed, and 
with bright, feverish eyes saw to all that was 
being done. Her agony was fearful; the 
struggle with death terrible. At last, after 
nights of painful watching, she said her last 
prayer, and gave up her soul in peace. 

The mother tried to resign herself, but she 
would look wistfully at the fat boy left behind 


1*78 A Baby -Worker 

and say, “Oh, if one had to go, why not that 
one?” 

But God had been very merciful in taking 
the baby home. Pardon me, dear children, if 
I tell you why. It is sad for you little chil- 
dren to know such things, but the knowledge 
of them may help you in after hfe. That 
tiny child Ella had already begun to drink! 
She had fetched her drunken father’s spirits 
for him and had tasted them on the way back. 
When he died she had bought an odd penny- 
worth now and again for herself. Her mother 
knew of her failing, but for want of will, and 
out of what she thought kindness, had never 
withstood the child with firmness. So you see, 
what seemed a great calamity was in truth a 
mark of God’s almighty love, as indeed all 
trials and sorrows are, if only we could see the 
reasons why. 

There was an artist who had watched the 
tiny Ella as she went about her work in the 
sunshine and the rain. When the child died, 
he made a sketch of the little being, colored 
it and brought it to the mother. He found 


179 


A Baby -Worker 

the woman in her kitchen, a hard look on her 
pinched face, and her eyes dry and bloodshot. 
She had never wept for her little one. Sor- 
row too deep for tears seemed to shut up her 
heart from all human consolation. She 
turned when the gentleman came in, but said 
not a word. He remarked rather bashfully 
that he had known the child, and had liked to 
watch her in her busy moments. The woman’s 
expression changed ; she listened eagerly to all 
he had to say. When he laid before her the 
sketch of her pretty one, the woman took it 
in her wasted hands, and gazed at it as if spell- 
bound. Then she fell on a stool, covered her 
face with her hands, and wept long and bit- 
terly. 


Better Ubougbts 


H STRONGLY built man, a smith by trade, was 
sitting in his little room, his head buried 
in his arms. He was a stricken man. His 
wife, whom he loved more than all else in the 
world, had just been buried, and there seemed 
nothing worth living for. The table was laid 
for dinner, but the very sight of it made him 
sick. There beside him she had sat, her two- 
year old child on her knee, the morning sun 
playing like a halo upon her soft light hair. 
And she was dead. Before he had married, 
the smith had been a bold, thoughtless man, 
fonder of the tavern than his home. But he 
became acquainted with Marie, and with a re- 
luctant consent of the mother, he married her, 
and for her sake became a changed man. Not 
one harsh word had ever passed his lips, not 
one hard deed had the recording angel to bring 
against him. 


180 


Better Thoughts 181 

But now the bad spirit seemed to have re- 
turned. Sorrow was hardening his heart; his 
thoughts were rebellious against God and His 
holy will. There had come a fever in the 
town; the child had been attacked and Marie 
had nursed it night and day. It was a hard 
struggle, but Marie won the child’s life and it 
recovered. Death, however, had had another 
victim; the devoted mother caught the sick- 
ness, and sank under it. In that very room 
only a few days before the coffin had stood with 
the sunshine playing on its rough painted sur- 
face. 

It was dinner time. If the father did not 
want his meal, the baby did. The door opened 
slowly, the child was pushed in and the door 
shut behind him. The little thing crept upon 
his father’s knee and tried to kiss the wet 
cheeks. In a moment of ungovernable anger 
the smith pushed the boy away from him and 
knocked him into the middle of the floor. Was 
he not the cause of his mother’s death? What 
was he doing there hale and happy while she 
lay buried outside ? At the sound of the child’s 


182 Better Thoughts 

cry somebody came in and silently carried him 
out. The man rose and went to the window; 
his eyes naturally turned in the direction of 
the cemetery. There glistening in the mid- 
day sun was the fine cemetery cross with its 
wide-stretched arms, embracing all the world, 
inviting all to come to it for relief and comfort. 
The smith prayed a short, passionate prayer, 
but it brought a blessing. An idea came into 
his mind; he would work a cross after that 
model for his wife’s grave. He would ham- 
mer it out of his best metal; he would spare 
neither time nor money to make it worthy of 
her whom he loved. 

So the strong man worked. The sparks rose 
fiery and red; the clink of the hammer was 
heard far and near. The cross shaped itself. 
At last it was finished — a rough piece of work- 
manship, without artistic merit of any kind. 
But every inch was fashioned with love. 

Early one morning the smith carried it off 
to the cemetery ; he laid aside the dead wreaths 
and sank his cross at the head of the little 
grave. Then he knelt down and prayed as 


Better Thoughts 183 

he had seldom prayed before. When at last 
he rose to go home, a softer feeling took pos- 
session of his sorely-tried heart. He began to 
think of his little child at home, the little being 
for whom she had given her life. Was he to 
be fatherless as well as motherless now? He 
felt terribly ashamed of the cruel blow he had 
given; he had not meant to hurt the boy, but 
his strength was beyond his control, and the 
child had dropped like a feather at his touch. 
Then a great fear came upon him — had he 
really injured his baby-son? Was he suffer- 
ing? He quickened his steps to a run and 
turned with a beating heart into his home. He 
ascended the stairs two steps at a time, and 
pushed open the nursery door. In the middle 
of the room stood the boy; his head was 
wrapped roimd with a red handkerchief and his 
face was white as a sheet. The father snatched 
him up in his arms, and held him tight in his 
arm. The little fellow dropped his head upon 
the big shoulder and kissed the rugged neck. 
Poor little child! He wanted love and kind- 
ness and had been so startled and hurt. “You 


184 Better Thoughts 

wos cross, father,” he said. That was all. 

Very soon father and son stood together 
beside the cross in the cemetery. Dew-drops 
hung on the brass ornamentations, and the 
hammered iron glistened in the sun. The 
smith took heart again and promised his dead 
wife he would live for his boy and for God. 


H Xeaenb 


Child Jesus in the Garden” — ^that is 
the name of it, and I read it in a Carol 
Book ^ of which I am very fond. Of course 
the legend is not true, but it might be, it is so 
sweet. The little Child Jesus was sad with 
coming sorrow. And He went out into a cold, 
bare garden away from all the world to rest 
His weary head. His little face was pale and 
drawn, and His hands were tightly clasped. 
No sooner had He left the house, than His 
Mother missed Him. She always felt His 
presence in the home, and His absence struck 
like a chill. Not finding Him in the tiny cot- 
tage, Mary sought for Him in the village be- 
yond. The snow was deep, the trees were 
leafless, the wind cutting; still she hurried for- 
ward to find Him, that with loving words she 
might soothe His trouble. 

The divine Boy stood in a lonely garden; 

^ “ Christmas Carols New and Old.*" 

185 


186 A Legend 

the wind blew His hair about and rustled His 
robe. His face told His Mother plainly what 
was passing in His mind. An anticipation of 
sorrow was written there. Tenderly Mary 
stooped down over the Child and poured lov- 
ing words of comfort into His ear. “Tell me,” 
she said, “my Lord and Son, what ails Thee? 
What is Thy grief? Thou art from above and 
I am from below, but still I am Thy true 
Mother.” The Child listened with uplifted 
face, and as she spoke, comfort crept into His 
soul. And when her words were ended. He 
looked straight into her face and smiled. 
Then a wonder was wrought! The cold wind 
ceased; the snow melted away; the trees burst 
forth into leaf and blossom. The birds sang 
their joyous spring songs and flew around with 
keen delight. Pure white lilies sprang up 
round Mary’s feet; a passion flower crept up 
the Boy’s slight figure and twined itself into 
a crown, mixed with thorns, around his head, 
foreshadowing suffering to come. The earth 
was beautiful and fair because the little 
Creator- Child had smiled! 


A Legend 187 

So sweet it might be true! And it would 
not be very wonderful if Our Lord’s smile 
worked what the sun, His own creation, works 
yearly. Or might not nature answer to His 
moods of joy as she answered to His sorrow? 
“The rocks were rent and the earth quaked” 
when He died upon the cross. Why should 
not the gladness of spring be produced by His 
smile? I do not know. But this we know, 
you and I; that at Christmas time our little 
Saviour smiled once long, long ago, and there 
seems to rest upon the season something of 
the gladness and sweetness of the holy Child’s 
smile. 


“Know, then, dear brother, in these Christmas 
hours. 

Sorrow like snow will melt, if He but smile; 
And if He clothe thy wintry path with flowers. 
Amidst thy mirth, think on His thorns 
awhile.” 

— Stainer. 


So it is quite our business, too, to smile and 
cast about us a simshine of gentle kindness and 


188 A Legend 

loving forbearance. Thus, we shall become, 
in our little way, other Christs, other ones, who 
warm and gladden by the sweetness of a smile. 


%mi 


^uiGi is the Italian for Louis; so if you find 
it hard to say the Itahan you can say Louis 
instead. This little boy was born in the Quiri- 
nal, which is a splendid palace that rightly be- 
longs to the Holy Father. Luigi’s father was 
an official in the palace in the time of Pope 
Pius IX. That is a long time ago; of course, 
none of you were alive then. And those were 
happy days in Rome. The Holy Father was 
the Sovereign of the Eternal City, and he was 
at liberty among a people that loved him. 
Xow Pius X has only the Vatican Palace left. 
All his land and his possessions as Head of the 
Church have been taken from him. We must 
pray that better days may come. 

But we must begin our story. Luigi was a 
very small boy and not any better than he 
ought to be. One day he saw some delicious 
cakes laid out on the table, Luigi was 

189 


190 


Luigi 

tempted. There is no harm in that. Any- 
body may be tempted. But Luigi did a very 
silly thing; he hovered round the cakes and let 
the smell come to him; he feasted his eyes upon 
them and at last stretched out his hand and took 
some. He must have been a very greedy child, 
because he took not only one cake or even two, 
but he stuffed his pockets and blouse full. 
Then he fled out into the garden towards a 
sheltered nook where he knew he could eat his 
booty in peace. But as he went up a beauti- 
ful alley he saw the Holy Father coming 
towards him, talking with his own father. 
Luigi’s had conscience made him a coward, or 
else he would never have been afraid of the 
gentle Pope. He lost his head and his man- 
ners (they generally go at the same time) and 
rushed past the Holy Father at full gallop. 
Pius asked the officer if that was not his son. 
The poor father had to confess it was; he was 
ordered to bring him back at once. After a 
breathless race the two stood before the Pope. 
The Holy Father ordered the boy to go down 
on his knees; then he took his pocket handker- 


191 


Luigi 

chief out and put it on Luigi’s head, covering 
his face all over. “Stay here on your knees, 
Luigi,” he said, “and remember that when you 
pass the Pope again, you bend the knee.” 
Luigi was relieved; he thought his two fathers 
had discovered his theft, and he could hardly 
breath with shame and remorse. For he knew 
how his blouse was bulging out; he knew that 
crumbs were slowly dropping all about, and 
that his fingers were greasy. Whether the holy 
Pope really knew what the boy had done I do 
not know. Pius saw a great deal more than he 
noticed. Well, he left Luigi on his knees with 
his face covered up for a good long time, until 
he had finished his walk all round the grounds, 
and had transacted all business with his of- 
ficer. Then he returned, took the cover from 
the boy’s hot face, and sent him away with his 
hidden cakes. 

That is not all the story by any means. 
What sort of a boy would you think Luigi grew 
up? A thief? No! I will tell what he is 
now. He is a priest who serves Our Lord un- 
der the shadow of the Quirinal where he was 


192 


Luigi 

born and bred. If you were to ask for him 
nowadays, by his proper name, you would have 
for answer, “Ah! to be sure, the holy man, the 
saint; go into the church, you will find him 
there.” I don’t expect Luigi became a saint 
all at once. This I know ; when he was at the 
Roman College studying hard, he and his 
young friends would meet in a garret and 
make plans. These plans were for visiting the 
hospitals, looking up the poor, serving them 
with all their young energies. At first it made 
Luigi sick to wait upon the invalids; but he 
overcame himself and fought against his deli- 
cate nature until he was able to do anything for 
them. And this is how he got a special bless- 
ing from God, and has been able to become 
more than ordinarily holy. He is living yet, 
an old man now, waiting for the summons that 
must come to us all one day, when only Our 
Lord knows. Let us try to be very ready for 
that call, like Luigi who stole the cakes. 


asiacft peter 

ravens are cawing all over. They caw 
early and late. They caw singly and to- 
gether; in chorus and in duets. No wonder, 
then, when I read a German tale of a very ob- 
noxious raven I was deeply interested. And 
as you seem to like what I like, I am going to 
tell you in my English what a lady tells beau- 
tifully in her German. It is a very sad story, 
and only shows what birds’ tempers may bring 
them to, if given way to. 

Peter was black. His feathers shone with a 
deep blue shade. His eye twinkled with a 
glossy glitter; his tail and wings were black 
as ink. 

His father was a blue-black raven, too. He 
had built his nest upon the topmost branch of 
a high lime tree. In choosing his position he 
had allowed for a good deal of rocking, which 
on a windy night might prove disagreeable. 

193 


194 


Black Peter 


But his thoughts were soaring thoughts, and 
he could not bear to have any one superior to 
him, even locally. The mother bird was of 
quite a different type. She would have chosen 
a more secluded spot for her nest, one not so 
much overlooked. But Peter’s father scorned 
the idea. Sometimes she would ask him to 
stay at home with her, to pass a cozy evening 
together. But he always cut up roughly, and 
asked her if she supposed he was going to turn 
hermit to accommodate her, which was rude 
and heartless, of course. And when she 
grumbled because of the exposed position of 
the nest, he would only speak of his lofty ideas, 
his soaring ambition, and the upliftings of his 
soul. After a fluent speech of this kind he 
would fly off to another tree and awake the 
neighborhood with his ugly caw. Passers-by 
would stare up to see what sized creature was 
making such a disagreeable noise. Then the 
raven was proud beyond bearing. “Do you 
see, my dear,” he would say, “how every one 
looks with wondering admiration whenever I 
open my mouth?” “I should think they do,” 


Black Peter 


195 


his shrewd wife would answer. “But remem- 
ber people do not always admire what they 
stare at.” “Hold your beak, I am busy,” the 
raven would answer, which in bird language 
was just as rude as saying, “hold your 
tongue!” 

One day the mother raven showed a fine egg 
to her spouse. He was touched for a moment, 
and smoothed down her feathers and went to 
look at the egg. Then he fiew back to his twig 
and thought of provender. Very soon a young 
raven crept out of the egg, and then there be- 
gan a life of slavery for the poor hen bird. Of 
all the voracious young animals that baby 
raven seemed the hungriest. No sooner was 
one fat worm despatched than the yellow beak 
was snapped for some more. If the tired 
mother sat for a moment on the edge of the 
nest the young fledghng pecked at her till she 
was glad to get oiF under any pretext. It 
was no use telling her grievances to the father; 
he only said he was glad to hear that his young 
son had so much spirit. “Take my word for 
it, if you want to be great, you must be push- 


196 


Black Peter 


ing. All big things are robbers and thieves, 
and it is they that carry all before them. Did 
you ever hear talk of a modest lion, or a good- 
natured tiger, or a submissive eagle? Of 
course you didn’t, and no one else either; it is 
only sheep that are retiring. Teach that boy 
of ours to use his strength and win his rights.” 
The young raven heard all, and he applauded. 
Those sentiments pleased him far better than 
the gentle ones of his mother, so he set to work 
to be as bold and as impudent as he could, con- 
sidering his size. At last he wore his mother’s 
patience out. One day she gave him a peck 
and a shove. The spoiled bird flew in a dread- 
ful passion, perched himself on the edge of the 
nest, and in a moment of ungovernable rage 
fell down, down. Through the leafy limes he 
dropped, from bow to bow he thudded, till at 
last he reached the ground a shaken mass of 
feathers. When he came to himself he was 
held in the withered hand of an old lady; her 
touch was soft and gentle. “Poor little bird,” 
she said, “what a dreadful fall! I will take 
it to my neighbors at the inn, they will gladly 


Black Peter 


197 


look after it. How your poor mother will 
be grieving!” Now here the good old lady 
was sadly mistaken. The mother bird had had 
enough of her troublesome young one, and had 
been really heard to say, as he fell, “Good 
riddance to bad rubbish!” However, the lady 
did not know this, and could only see the meek- 
looking, half -unconscious raven. 

The peasant at the inn was very kind. She 
was young, and her husband, too, and they were 
greatly interested in the new pet. They fed 
it upon bread and milk, and sugar and seeds. 
Soon the fledgling grew fat and strong, and 
the cage became too small for him. 

In the yard of the inn there was a chestnut 
tree which threw a cool shade over the burning 
stones. Here there lay nearly all day a splen- 
did dog, a Scotch sheep dog, with yellow flow- 
ing hair and a white collar round his neck. 
This dog was called Rollie. It had been well 
brought up and had good manners. It did 
not bite nor bark unless there was absolute 
necessity for it. It was on good terms with 
the cat, Musch, which is saying a great deal for 


198 


Black Peter 


its temper. At first Rollie and Musch only 
looked at the cage from a distance; they could 
just see that something living was within, be- 
cause Peter was not still a moment. But it 
was only a sort of a flash that they got of his 
blue-black tail, or a swish of the shimmering 
wings. But as time went by the two friends 
became bolder, they crept quite close, one be- 
hind the other, Rollie first and Musch next. 
Then Musch sprang into the tree and looked at 
the young raven from above, Rollie sat un- 
derneath and watched it from below. 

Peter was delighted. He came to the bars 
of his cage and twisted his head above and then 
below. At last he deigned to speak. 

“Good morning, my friends! Take a good 
look at me! You don’t see such a fine fellow 
every day, make the most of your opportu- 
nity.” 

“No,” said the truthful Rollie, “we don’t.” 

“No,” said the cat. “Such a hateful look- 
ing bird we certainly don’t often see, and we 
don’t want to.” 

“Hateful looking!” screamed Peter. “Ah! 


Black Peter 


199 


that’s because you can’t appreciate my excel- 
lence. Wait till I get out of this cage, won’t 
I peck your green eyes out of your head, you 
poor creeping, wingless beast!” 

“Oh,” growled Rollie, “you are a disgusting 
bird!” 

“So you’re putting your word in, are you?” 
screeched Peter. “Why, what can you have 
to say in the matter? You have no wings, 
have you? You have never been up in the air 
like me; what experience can you have? I 
advise you to hold your tongue and mend your 
manners.” 

The inn-keeper’s wife came out when she 
heard all this noise, and scolded the dog and 
cat, because she knew, she said, they had been 
provoking the little stranger. 

“Come away, Musch,” said Rollie, disconso- 
lately, “we will have nothing to do with that 
vulgar bird.” 

“Wait till I get him into my claws,” said 
Musch, “then he will get his deserts!” 

There was council held in the yard. Musch 


Black Peter 


200 

was there and RoUie the dog, several fat, know- 
ing geese, friends of the combatants, and a 
few hens and ducks. Rollie told his tale and 
Musch chimed in. “He is a rascally bird,” 
said the oldest goose. “You will live to see the 
day when he will be a burden and a bitterness 
to you. Hold fast together, so that when that 
day of reckoning comes you may be able to 
give it him soundly.” 

“Let me alone for that,” said the cat. “Only 
let me have him under my claws and I will not 
let him go easily.” 

“I am vexed because our mistress scolded us, 
and laid the blame on our shoulders. It is not 
fair!” said the high-spirited Rollie. 

“Bid your time; the lady will have her eyes 
opened one day,” answered the old goose. 
“Mark my words, that bold bird will get its 
due.” Rollie laid himself down in the sim. 
Musch jumped into the branch of the chestnut 
tree, and purred loudly, a sort of cradle song 
for Rollie. 

But the young mistress was infatuated with 
the raven. She clipped its wings and let it go 


Black Peter 


201 


free. The whole house was at its disposal 
now, and the yard and the farm and the pad- 
dock. It would fly into the kitchen and perch 
upon a dresser and take a survey, then swoop 
down upon any object it fancied. In the din- 
ing-room it reconnoitered from a cabinet, and 
after making its choice would dart on to its 
booty. Nothing was safe that it could carry 
in its beak, and it was quite wonderful what it 
could carry. Rollie was shocked to see its vul- 
garity. It would settle on the mistress’ shoul- 
der and steal the long pins out of her curly hair. 
It took the silver spoons, sugar tongs, and the 
sugar. It selected bits from any one’s plate 
and drank from any goblet. But the young 
woman only laughed and petted the spoiled 
thing the more. 

The master of the house could not bear the 
bird, and often warned his wife of the danger 
she was in from its beak. But she was amused 
and took no notice. However, one day she 
became seriously displeased herself. For a 
precious ring was lost. Every nook and 
cranny had been searched, but nothing had 


202 


Black Peter 


been found. The housemaid declared with hot 
tears she knew nothing of the lost ring. The 
coachman gave notice because he had been 
questioned concerning the ring. The police 
were called in, and investigated; but nothing 
came of their search. 

Baking day came around; the cook shook 
the flour from the bin into her basin. While 
she was kneading it she felt something hard in 
her hand. It was the lost ring. The rascally 
bird had stolen it, and let it fall into the bin. 
Then there was a general search and long- 
missing articles were found in the most un- 
likely corners. 

The master of the house was sick of Peter’s 
tricks; he solemnly forbade him the house; un- 
der no circumstances was he ever again to in- 
trude. He was to be content with the yard. 
Peter showed off considerably upon this an- 
nouncement. He much preferred the yard, 
he informed the animals. He found the so- 
ciety of men and women very dull, and their 
manners heavy. 

“Neither is your society agreeable to us,” 


Black Peter 


203 


said Musch, and she turned to go. Peter in 
a fury flew upon her back, and pecked at her 
eyes, and struck with his wings about her head, 
until she did not know where she lay. If Rollie 
had not come to the rescue poor Musch would 
have been eyeless. 

From that day forth there was open war 
between the three. It would take too long to 
tell of all the skirmishes, the sieges, the free 
flghts between Musch, Rollie, and Peter. At 
last the cat and dog concocted a plot. Rollie 
should lie in the sun; Peter would fly upon 
him and caw into his ears; Musch would rush 
upon Peter, who would let Rollie go, and make 
for the cat; then Rollie would be free to do 
something worth noting. 

Rollie lay in the sun dozing, Musch lay hid 
in his kennel. Peter played into their hands 
as if he had been in the plot. Down he 
swooped and seized Rollie by the ear. Two 
against one is not fair; still, when it is war to 
the knife, perhaps one hasn’t got to be scrupu- 
lous. Anyway, the struggle was desperate; 
and the end terrible. When the mistress came 


204 


Black Peter 


out to see what the matter was, what do you 
think she saw? Rolhe with Black Peter’s head 
in his mouth, and a wonderful display of 
feathers all over the yard. And what do you 
think she said? “Serve him right !” And that 
is the end of a spoiled pet I 


H five tlricft 


twelve children in the front row go to 
Confession next Saturday. Do you un- 
derstand? Mind you are in the church twenty 
minutes before three, so as to make your prep- 
aration. You remember the four things you 
have to do? Well, mind you do them.” The 
kind parish priest turned away. Amongst 
the small boys sitting before him there was a 
little fellow nearly seven years old. He turned 
white as the priest said the words. A short 
time ago the thought of Confession had been 
full of delight to him; the event showed him 
to be growing up quickly; he would have a 
certain standing in the family. But a day’s 
short-lived pleasure had changed the aspect of 
affairs. ^^Tell all my sins! even that one that 
I have never told to my darling Molly !” And 
he sighed deeply. 

Four days before the above announcement 

205 


A Fire Trick 


206 

in the church, Harry, the pale boy, had felt a 
terrible longing to go on to the moor and see 
it burn. Once a year men came, and dug up 
the old wood, made heaps of bracken and 
heather, and set fire to them. Again, there 
were men who at about Easter time made what 
they called paschal fire. But these were 
riotous people and he was never allowed to go 
and see their doings. But Harry longed to 
set fire to something himself, to see the bright 
fiames spread and white pillars of smoke go 
up into the clear sky. He watched his oppor- 
tunity. All the family was out one day except 
his own dear eldest sister Molly, who had been 
a mother to him ever since his own mother had 
died. So, in a very wheedling voice, he told 
Molly he wanted to go out on to the moor. 
He was tired of being in the house. Couldn’t 
he run off a bit? After a little hesitation 
Molly consented, but called after him not to 
go far, and to come back soon. 

Harry flew. He was afraid of a change in 
the permission. Very secretly he collected 
matches and paper, pushed them into his 


A Fire Trick 


m 


pockets, and went for the moor. There it lay 
before him so wild, so mysterious; so dark and 
vast looking. He stumbled over hidden 
branches of long dead trees; he caught his foot 
in long bramble trailers; he jumped the short 
gorse bushes. Soon he came to a high wall 
of rich brown turf, stacked up to dry. This 
would be a good place for his experiment. 
The fire would be sheltered from the wind; it 
would catch more easily. 

In great excitement Harry collected the 
chips strewn about; he wrenched off dried 
bramble shoots; he broke off bits of turf from 
the large wall before him. Then he shoved in 
bits of paper into several spots, and last of all 
struck a match. Splendid ! The paper caught, 
the turf blazed, the wind fanned the fiame, and 
the wood crackled. Hal clapped his hands 
with joy. A dear little fire all to himself ; out 
on the moor where the big men lit theirs. 
The crackling was music to the child’s ear ; the 
small white column of smoke filled him with 
pious thoughts of the tabernacle and the Israel- 
ites. Soon some tongues of fire shot up, and 


A Fire Trick 


^08 

some crept low down. The bramble trailers 
were good conductors, and the wind was a 
famous bellows. It was spreading his beauti- 
ful fire. The child sat still and watched. It 
must not get too big, he thought, or people 
would come out to see, and perhaps they would 
be angry. He began to blow hard at the 
flames, but it seemed to mock him. It was 
widening and creeping and licking the ground 
all around. The spot the boy sat upon began 
to be heated; he moved off, and as he turned 
he saw the thick wall, like a hill of dried turf, 
close beside him. Young though he was, Hal 
saw the danger. That big heap would catch 
fire, and much would be lost. Then a great 
fear possessed the boy, and he ran home for his 
life. With blackened hands and face, he 
reached the garden door. His father stood by 
the porch and mechanically put out his hand to 
the child without looking up from his paper. 
Hal went miserably into the house. In a few 
moments a cry of “Fire on the moor” re- 
sounded far and near. Hal’s father shouted 
to his children to come and look; it would be a 


A Fire Trick 


209 


sight worth seeing, he said. Molly took her 
young charge by the hand and clasped him 
tight. She felt the tremble and saw the 
scared look, but she only said quietly, “Don’t 
be afraid, Harry ; all will be well.” 

A large crowd assembled in the wonderfully 
quick time that crowds require. Nothing 
could be done; the great hillock of turf was 
lost. It would blaze for about two hours or 
more, according to the wind; some thousands 
of pieces would be lost ; but the damage would 
stop there; for there ran across the moor a 
saving ditch over which the flames could not 
well pass. Hal listened to every remark that 
was made, every comment. “Somebody had 
crossed the moor with a lighted pipe, and had 
let fly a spark,” a voice said. The culprit 
squeezed his sister’s hand; he knew better, but 
the crime was so great he could not tell even 
her. He went to bed miserable, and he tossed 
about dreaming of houses made of turf and all 
ablaze, and of naughty little boys being burned 
in bed. “Serve them very well right,” a per- 
son had said, with more truth than feeling. 


^10 


A Fire Trick 


Saturday morning came — Confession day, 
Harry’s first Confession day! It was half- 
past two and the twelve small boys lingered 
round the porch of the church waiting to go 
in to begin their preparation. As there were 
ten minutes to spare, they looked out upon the 
busy shops, upon the passers-by as they went 
to work, upon the carters with their teams. 
Harry was white and shivering. “Are you 
afraid?” one of his companions whispered. 
“No, I’m not,” he answered. “I am only cold 
with waiting!” And his teeth chattered. 
Ten minutes passed and the boys began their 
preparation. Harry did his best ; he made his 
examination of conscience after the prayer for 
light; then that terrible crime started up in 
order, first foremost — the fire on the heath. 
That must come out first, he knew; the worst 
first for fear of one’s courage going below a 
possible rising point. He would say it, he 
would, he would. But if only the earth would 
swallow him up ! Every time the sacristy door 
opened, Harry looked round in dread. But 
once it was the sacristan, once a priest to fetch 


A Fire Trick 


211 


the Blessed Sacrament to some one dying. 
And when at last his Father did come, Harry 
was reading the notice board about the hymns. 
The priest as he knelt for a moment beside the 
boys, noticed Harry’s white face and pinched 
look. He laid his hand on his arm and said, 
“Harry my lad, come in with me; we shall 
have done all in a few moments.” And before 
the sickening feeling could return Harry was 
on his knees, saying the form of Confession. 
Then with a strong effort the boy told his story. 
The priest called him a brave boy, said some 
encouraging words, and then added: “For 
your penance say every day for a week, a ‘Hail 
Mary,’ and once, ‘Dear Lord, I promise, with 
Thy grace, always to tell my sins in Confes- 
sion. Help me, dear Lord.” 

With a heart burning with joy, Harry came 
out of the confessional and said his penance 
and made his thanksgiving. Each child re- 
ceived a pretty picture as a remembrance of 
his first Confession and then they left the 
church together. Harry’s way lay out of the 
town, over towards the moors. He leaped 


A Fire Trick 


and ran and danced in the sunshine. As he 
neared the house he saw his big sister watch- 
ing on the door-step. He ran joyously to- 
wards her and held out his arms. By the 
look of radiant joy on his face, she knew that 
all was well. How she had prayed for the 
little sinner. She had guessed his secret, but 
had not said a word. His confidence must 
be given, not stolen. Now all fear of his 
hiding anything in his first Confession was 
over. That glad face could not hide fear and 
shame. She kissed the child on his forehead 
and went in. “Harry,” she said, “you did not 
purposely set the turf on fire, you know. 
You only meant to light up a beautiful Easter 
fire, and you made a very expensive one in- 
stead.” He only squeezed her hand. It was 
all over anyhow now and he was forgiven. 
That was enough for the child. 


presence of fiDinb 

^IJt was in 1847. The Countess of Schwars- 
berg, a very great countess indeed, and 
Princess of Henneberg, was living at Rudolf- 
stadt. There was war raging on all sides. 
But the countess had obtained letters of pro- 
tection from Charles V against the depreda- 
tions of the Spanish troops who had to pass 
through her dominions. Catherine loved her 
people as if they were her children. What 
afflicted them, afflicted her doubly. The letters 
from the emperor had been graciously sent, 
and there was every hope of safety. Still all 
precautions had been taken by the prudent 
ruler. A bridge situated near the town was 
pulled down, and hastily built further from the 
city to lessen the temptations to plunder. One 
day a polite message was sent from a Span- 
ish general and Duke Henry of Braun- 
schweig. They were at the castle gates, and 

313 


ai4 Presence of Mind 

begged a breakfast in the castle. So modest 
a request could not be denied. They were 
bidden welcome, and a splendid repast was 
offered to them in the sumptuous dining-hall 
of the castle. At the same time the countess 
reminded her guests of their emperor’s prom- 
ise to respect all the goods of the peasantry, 
and to buy from them all the provisions the 
soldiers required. 

Midway in the meal word was brought to 
the countess that a raid had been made on 
the neighboring farms, and that cattle had 
been driven away, and insults offered her peo- 
ple. All Catherine’s motherly tenderness was 
roused. She informed her guests of the 
wicked deed, and demanded satisfaction. 
The two nobles only laughed. Such things 
must happen in war! Troops could not be 
expected to behave themselves like ordinary 
citizens, they said, and so on. The countess 
stood pale before her guests. “We shall see 
about that,” she answered. “I will have res- 
titution or, ‘Princes’ blood for oxen blood!’” 
She turned and left the room. A few minutes 


Presence of Mind ^15 

later she appeared with all her retainers armed 
to the teeth. The castle gates were locked. 
The two princes found themselves cut off 
from the army and surrounded by warriors. 
Young Prince Henry was the first to recover 
his presence of mind. He pretended to take 
the whole affair as a joke, a very good joke. 
Of course satisfaction should be given. He 
would treat with the Duke of Alva, and all 
would be right. But the countess was not 
satisfied with verbal promises. She insisted 
on a letter being written at once and sent to 
the camp, demanding the restoration of all 
goods seized. The letter was written; the 
goods were restored. Then the brave countess 
said good-by to the guests in her most gra- 
cious and winning manner. They retired 
rather sheepishly, having been outdone by a 
woman’s cool presence of mind. 


Ube Commanbant at Ibersfielb 

*j[T WAS the winter of 1806. French troops 
were occupjnng Hesse and disorders had 
arisen. The towns-folk preferred the old or- 
der to the new; a riot occurred; a French 
officer was killed and much damage was done. 
Such deeds could not be passed by un- 
punished, for insurrection under the circum- 
stances is catching. The emperor ordered the 
town of Hersfield to be plundered, and fired 
at four different places and thus reduced to 
ashes. An alleviation of the punishment was 
brought about, however, by the humane com- 
mandant; four houses only were to be burned 
down, but the plundering was to be carried 
out. 

The terrible news paralyzed the inhabitants. 
They seemed to lose the use of their under- 
standings, and it was the officer himself who 

had to advise them to do the best for them- 
216 


The Commandant at Hersfield ^17 

selves. He told them to carry off and hide 
every possible treasure they could transport 
and that as quickly as they could. 

The drum beat; the sqldiers were drawn up 
in the market place to listen to the emperor’s 
order, and carry it out. The commandant 
read out the decree and paused. He spoke 
of the terror of the poor people, of the heart- 
broken mothers, the trembling maidens, the 
innocent children. He spoke of the sacred- 
ness of the homes they were about to enter; 
the goods that belonged by every social right 
to the owners. He spoke of the common re- 
ligion that bound them all, even though of dif- 
ferent nations, in one bond. He reminded 
them of their own little ones, of the hearth and 
the cradle, of their mothers and wives. “Now 
your hour is come. Stand forth you who have 
the lust to plunder. There is nothing to 
hinder you from doing your worst!” Not a 
movement was made. Not a soldier quitted 
the place where he stood. By the consent of 
all no plunder was sought; the homes and the 
little ones were safe. They had been confided 


218 The Commandant at Hersfield 

to the hearts of the soldiery and they were re- 
spected. 

The burghers heard of the kindness of the 
commanding officer and were filled with grati- 
tude. They sent a deputation to him and of- 
fered him a handsome sum of money. Do 
you think he took it? Can you imagine such 
a man selling his good deeds? I can’t. Well 
he did not. But he asked a gift — a silver coin 
with the name of Hersfield engraved upon it, 
with the date and an inscription of the event. 
He wanted to give it as a present to his future 
bride. That is the sort of soldier I admire. 


xrbe Tlwelttb IFltobt Cabe 


*j|T WAS a beauty! The family said they had 
never seen so splendid a cake. And that 
was saying a good deal; for the young ones 
used to often go and peer through the win- 
dows of London confectioners and gaze with 
longing eyes upon the rich, white cakes that 
stood in splendid array upon the high silver 
dishes. The family — Burton — was not rich, 
and it was numerous. There were two 
daughters over age; two sons learning trades, 
six younger daughters and two small hoys, 
who were no use nor ornament, and whose 
every movement had to be watched. But the 
family was a happy one. “More children, 
more blessing!” was an oft-heard proverb. 
And it seemed certainly true in this instance. 
The wonderful cake had not been bought, as 
you may imagine; it was a present from a 
rich relation, who always did things hand- 


2^0 The Twelfth Night Cake 

somely. And this was handsome, indeed. 
It was a large, white, thickly-sugared cake 
with garlanded edges, bordered with rose- 
buds curiously cut from preserved fruits. 
And in the middle there was a large red 
rose with bright green leaves. If you 
took the trouble to count you would have 
counted at least two dozen rosebuds, besides 
other dainty flowers in glistening colors. 

When the white wood box with its precious 
contents came it was Christmas Eve, and it 
was determined in council that the cake should 
be kept till the proper day— twelve nights off. 
So it was carefully carried away into a small 
room, called the balcony-room, where it was 
safely locked up. The mother took away the 
key and put it into her pocket. 

Now, every one in the house had had a look 
at that cake. Even the good-hearted, willing 
servant had been allowed to have a peep, and 
all looked forward with joy to the moment 
when the knife would first strike into its white- 
iced top. 

One day the good mother of this large, in- 


The Twelfth Night Cake 221 

teresting family found to her dismay that she 
had lost the key of the balcony-room. At 
once there was a hullabaloo; and suspicious 
glances often rested upon the two unfortunate 
little boys, who certainly did look rather guilty. 
Still, whoever took the key had not got all he 
wanted. A grown-up, responsible person was 
always found sitting in the neighboring room, 
and very cunning would that boy or girl have 
been who had managed to scheme in and out 
undetected. 

The days passed slowly, and Twelfth Night 
was coming very near. The family had never 
before had a real, proper cake, iced and orna- 
mented. And every time their thoughts 
dwelt upon it a sort of joyous feeling shot 
through them. Perhaps some of you are 
smiling gravely at such greediness, but then, 
perhaps, you are not so human as some of 
us are. 

The 5th of January came. Mrs. Burton 
took her keys and went into the balcony-room. 
For she had found the key, and had carefully 
secured it to her bunch. She wanted to see 


222 


The Twelfth Night Cake 

about a number of presents, small and cheap, 
but very precious, that had been stored up in 
that room for this great feast. The father 
followed her in; he was going to dust the 
Christmas tree and dress it with the bright toys 
and lights and pretty gifts that he had bought 
the night before. There was much to be done. 
Dishes of raisins had to be laid out; nuts, too, 
put on one plate, oranges and apples on an- 
other. Then the grand cake must be lifted 
out and put on a large dish. Mrs. Burton 
left that to the last. When all was done she 
raised the lid of the white box and — screamed ! 
Her husband turned round in amazement. 
What on earth had happened? Her scream 
brought the whole family to the door; sons 
and daughters came running in in dread and 
fear. What had come over mother to make 
her scream so dreadfully? They looked 
about, and there — there in the white box was a 
sight to be seen. The cake looked as if mice, 
rats, and other vermin had swarmed upon it 
and eaten the best bits from off its top and 
sides. “O the cake! the cake!” they cried with 


The Twelfth Night Cake 223 

one voice. “Who and what has been at the 
cake?” The father’s face was a picture. He 
glared round upon the assembled family, and 
said that unless full confession was made there 
would be no distribution of presents. One of 
the family must have done the deed. It 
couldn’t be supposed that any one from out- 
side had come by night to eat the Burtons’ 
cake. And as for mice, or even rats — the 
thing was absurd. Traces of fingers could be 
plainly seen upon the edges; the buds were 
mostly torn oflp, and many leaves of the big 
central rose were certainly wanting. The two 
youngest boys cried their eyes out, and the 
six younger girls helped them ; for the rest of 
the family was giving out unmistakable hints 
that they were looked upon as the culprits. 
Tinka, the old, true-hearted servant, was there, 
too, and looked as miserable as the rest. Then 
one of the little ones gave himself up. With 
a terrible sigh and an awful sniff he got out 
the words, “I took a rosebud!” The heart of 
his confederate was immediately softened, 
and he sniffed, “And so did H” 


^24 The Twelfth Night Cake 

"“And what did you take besides a rosebud?” 
said the father, in an angry tone. 

“Nothing, indeed I didn’t. I only fumbled 
round the edge a little.” 

If the matter were not so painful one would 
feel inclined to laugh at what next happened. 
The boys, seeing that there was still much of 
the mystery not cleared up, and fearing they 
were still suspected, set up a howl. This 
touched the tender heart of Tinka, the maid, 
and she owned to having taken three rosebuds, 
or perhaps four, or even five ; then each one of 
the other Burtons owned to one rosebud apiece, 
so there were fifteen or more accounted for. 

Well, but who had taken the rest? was the 
next question. 

“Ought there not be nine more?” the 
father asked, “or rather, perhaps, seven,” he 
added. 

“Yes; there will be seven,” said the mother. 
“I took two, just to see if the cake had not got 
very stale with keeping.” 

“No; there will be only five,” said the father. 
“I took two, also, just to see of what kind of 


The Twelfth Night Cake 225 

fruit the buds were made!’’ And thus the 
number was made up. Nothing was said of 
the broken edges or of the finger marks. No 
one looked at the other, and each got out of 
the room as quickly as he could. Tinka dried 
her eyes with the end of her rather dirty apron 
and slipped away to the kitchen. 

A slight shadow was perceptible at the sup- 
per next day when the mishandled cake was 
put on the table, and every one understood 
what the master of the house meant when he 
said with a sigh, “Ah, we’re all human and 
liable to err!” 




'^His Lord does not mean Our Lord, but a 
great Spanish gentleman whom his en- 
emies the Moors called the Cidj that is “The 
Lord.” The Moors, you know, were follow- 
ers of Mahomet, who had conquered much of 
Europe and put Christians who were true to 
their faith to the sword. These Moors were 
wicked and cruel, so all who could bear arms 
made it their business to enlist against them 
and fight them as foes of God and man. 
Spain was overrun with them when this hero 
was living, and he spent his life in warring 
against them. 

The Cid’s real name was Rodrigo de Bivar, 
and he was so brave and so true and so great 
in every way that even the Moors respected 
and feared him. 

One day the Cid was going on a long 

journey to Compostela, a shrine in Spain, 
226 


^^The Lord'' 


where St. James the Apostle is venerated. 
After the pilgrimage to the Holy Land, and 
at one time to our own dear St. Thomas of 
Canterbury, this is the greatest pilgrimage in 
the world. Rodrigo had with him a train of 
twenty gentlemen, as became his rank; he was 
mounted on a beautiful horse with splendid 
trappings, and his dress was costly. As he 
rode through villages and cities, he threw coins 
to the right and left; he loved giving, and 
the poorer and more miserable the waysiders 
looked the more silver coin he threw. 

The road turned at one point into a badly- 
kept, dark country lane. The overhanging 
trees made it impossible to see what lay around. 
But all were startled at hearing a hoarse, loud 
cry from a ditch which skirted the road. 

“For God’s sake come to the help of a mis- 
erable Christian, who prays for a little re- 
lief!” The brave cavaliers shrank back with 
horror; they could face fire and sword, dangers 
of land and sea; but risk contagion from a 
leper — ^no! that could not be expected from 
any one. 


22S 


^^The Lord;^ 


Rodrigo listened for a moment; it was not 
hesitation as to how to act that made him pause. 
He only wanted to be quite sure where the 
man lay. An instant after, he threw the 
reins to his squire and swung off his horse’s 
back and made for the leper. A great cry 
arose from all around. They begged and en- 
treated their beloved lord not to dare to touch 
such an object; let him throw charity to him, 
but for pity’s sake keep off. Rodrigo might 
have been deaf for all the heed he gave. He 
reached out his ungloved hand and gently 
raised the man from out of the mud; gently 
helped him to mount his own beautiful horse, 
and with a mother’s tenderness kept him up- 
right in the saddle. When the cavalcade came 
to the inn, Rodrigo had the man’s knife and 
fork laid at his own table and both shared 
the same meal. When the time for rest came, 
the bed ordered for the great lord was given 
over to the leper, and the Cid rested by his 
side, to be a comfort to him, should he wake 
in the night. 


^^The Lorff^ 


^29 


But in the night the Cid awoke; he fancied 
there was a cold breath of air passing over 
his face; terror filled his heart; could the poor 
leper be dead? He rose with a start. There 
was no leper by his side. He sought him 
everywhere. No one had seen him go; the 
doors were locked. The servants searched far 
and near for the poor man. But not a trace 
was there to be found. Rodrigo returned to 
his chamber. A brilliant light was shining 
there, and a man, stately in form and shining 
gloriously, stood before him. 

“Art thou asleep or awake, O Cid?” the 
vision asked. 

“I am awake! But whence art thou that 
shinest so resplendently?” he answered. 

“I am the holy Lazarus sent to speak to thee. 
I am come from the Most High, and for thy 
charity He will reward thy arms with victory; 
where’er thou goest the honors of the field 
shall be thine. Thou shalt be glorious in thy 
life; thy enemy shall fear thee. And in thy 
death thou shalt be received into the highest 


230 


The Lordf^ 


heavens. For what thou didst to the poor 
leper, thou didst to thy Lord Jesus, and He 
will repay.” 

Rodrigo fell on his knees and the morning 
light found him still in prayer. 


DtC)^en ScxvmtB 


old hermit lived in a cell in a wilderness 
many hundreds of years ago. He had led 
a very holy life, he had fasted and mortified 
his flesh; he had worked with his hands and 
lived only to do God’s holy will. In the sum- 
mer he adored God and blessed Him for the 
bright sunshine, the lovely flowers and the 
buzzing insects. In the spring he watched the 
green things growing and felt the sharp sweet- 
ness of the early morning air, and he blessed 
God again. And when winter and autumn 
came with their cold, and uncertain blasts, with 
snow and hard frosts, he blessed God again, 
and with a stronger note of praise, because 
in it there was sacrifice. 

Now and then the saintly old man used to 
go down into the valley below to preach to 
the men of the hamlets and villages. Then 
he would gather them around him and speak 

2S1 


Hidden Servants 


wonderfully of God, and before he went away 
he would first lay his hand upon their heads 
to bless them, and often he cured their pains 
in a miraculous manner by his touch. 

But once there came a thought into his head 
which should not have been there. And the 
hermit dwelt upon it; he thought it over, and 
considered it. And the thought was this : 
Was there any other soul on earth with whom 
God was as pleased as with his own? You 
see there was pride in this thought, and God 
does not love pride. And the hermit begged 
God to show him the soul if such there were. 

Immediately a beautiful angel stood beside 
him. The holy old man was by no means 
afraid. He was used to heavenly visitations. 
The angel said to him that he should go into 
the next village ; there he would find a troupe 
of acrobats; amongst these would be the soul 
which was as dear to Almighty God as his own. 
As soon as day dawned the hermit set off with 
his staff in his hand, and a little wallet on his 
arm. The peasants greeted him and knelt for 
a blessing as he passed, and they noted the 


Hidden Servants 


gloomy look in the well-loved face. “Our 
father is downhearted to-day; what can be the 
matter with him?” they said. He was down- 
hearted ; because he wondered how a man living 
as a mountebank could possibly be as much 
loved as one who had lived solely for God. 

The hermit went into the town and found 
the troupe just about to give a perform- 
ance. He took up a position where he could 
see all the players and he studied their faces. 
The leader of the band must be the man he 
was looking for, he thought; there was no par- 
ticular sign of interior peace upon the face, 
but there was a distinction about him that none 
could mistake. After the performance was 
over the hermit called the acrobat to him and 
begged him to come for a talk. They went 
out of the town and sat upon a low wall. 

“My son,” the hermit said, “I have had a 
communication from heaven, which you must 
help me to understand by telling me how you 
have passed your life. What have you done 
for God?” 

“My life has been a very miserable one, 


2S4 


Hidden Servants 


my father,” the man answered. “I have many 
sorrows that none know of, for I get a scanty 
living by laughing and making jokes. Still, 
I never complain, because I know the pains 
and troubles I have are not half as severe 
as I deserve.” 

The hermit asked him about his past life. 

‘T was a robber once,” he said, ‘‘and be- 
longed to a wicked band that held the whole 
neighborhood in constant fear and dread.” 

The hermit’s head fell upon his arm and his 
thin hands wiped away the falling tears. 
Had God forgotten all his services, all his love, 
that He could compare him with such a soul! 

“But, my son, tell me, did you never do any 
good deed that gave great glory to God?” 

“Once, yes, once I did a good deed. There 
came into our camp a young and virtuous girl, 
almost a child. She had been carried off in a 
raid with which I had had nothing to do. I 
pitied the child, but thought it was not my busi- 
ness to interfere; but once I caught the look 
of deepest grief in her beautiful eyes. Then 
I made up my mind I would risk all to save 


Hidden Servants 


2S5 


her from harm. That very night I rose 
quietly while my companions were sleeping off 
their drunkenness; I motioned to the young 
girl to follow me, and put her on horseback 
and fled with her to a neighboring place of 
safety. As I lifted her from the saddle she 
turned to me and said, ‘God will reward you 
for this deed.’ After that I had no heart for 
a robber’s life. I left the band and have ever 
since tried to win my bread by honest means. 
That is my miserable life’s story, my father. 
You see I can never have too much to suffer.” 

The hermit fell upon his knees and thanked 
God for His goodness. The robber in one 
night had done as much for God as he had 
done in fifteen years of austerity and soli- 
tude. Then the two beloved of God, went 
together into the mountain and lived and 
prayed side by side until the younger was 
called to an early reward, leaving the hermit 
to make his way to heaven alone. 


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12 







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